


The Adventure of the Not-So-Innocent Bystander

by Velyrhorde (Ryan_Writes)



Category: Alias Smith and Jones, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryan_Writes/pseuds/Velyrhorde
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is deep in a case that brings him to the American West when he runs into a familiar figure.





	1. The Adventure of the Not-So-Innocent Bystander

It was in the summer of 18-- that I found myself involved in one of my more unusual cases. As my biographer does not share my views -- I believe his exact words were "My God, Holmes, the only unusual thing about that case was the fact that we managed to cross the Atlantic twice without meeting up with foul weather!" -- I am reduced to writing the particulars myself. That being the case, the reader should expect none of the overblown descriptions and dramatic endings which are so irresistible to my friend. I find the bare statement of facts preferable to extraneous information about the scenery or the "atmosphere." Also, I will include no sympathetic young women, red haired or not, even though Watson seems to somehow insert one into nearly every one of his stories.

I had been invited to the summer estates of the new Lord B---, the previous holder of that title having recently passed away after a long life spent acquiring a vast and indiscriminate collection of antiquities. The current nobleman informed me that his two siblings, who made their residences in France and America respectively, had made off with some of the more valuable articles of the collection during the confusion of the death and the legal rigmarole that followed. He had succeeded in convincing one brother to return his share of the stolen goods- by threatening legal action, and by hiring an investigator to unearth various unsavoury habits to which his brother had recently become enamored. However, he informed me that the other brother, who had seemingly picked up several of the less attractive mannerisms common to the area of America in which he had settled, had absolutely refused to deal with him. In short, not only had the man refused to agree to his terms, but also had threatened to "fill him full of lead" should he attempt to remove any of the articles from his ranch in Colorado.

At first, I was reluctant to accept what seemed to be a simple stolen property retrieval. However, Lord B - henceforth, I shall refer to the man as Lord Blackburn, rather than pepper my manuscript with an alphabet soup of initials! - shared several pertinent facts with me, not the least of which was the estimated value of the one item he wished recovered more than any of the others. The item in question was an extremely rare volume on alchemy, and the value succeeded in raising my heartbeat. The second interesting variable was his sister, who had exhibited, shall we say, questionable morals in the past. Not only was she an unmarried woman who was regularly seen in the company of numerous unsavoury males, but on more than one occasion, men who had crossed her in business were later discovered dead under mysterious circumstances. In each case, no evidence whatsoever could be found tying the woman to the death, nor were the deaths the sort which would have been quick or painless. The husband who had been chosen by her father had, also (conveniently) fallen from his horse and been killed after only a few years of marriage.

And this sister - who I will call Mrs. Morecambe - had declared her intention to obtain the artifact for herself, in payment for what she deemed a stingy endowment from the will.

"Holmes, I need a man who is beyond resourceful," I was told. "I must have someone who can not only recover my property, but who is capable of dealing with whatever trickery my sister manufacturers. I am afraid that any traditional investigator who I might hire would underestimate her, and would then be found in the circumstances of her former business rivals."

The idea of a female opponent intrigued me, especially after the Irene Adler affair. It was a rare and exciting thing for me, finding anyone, let alone a woman, with sufficient intelligence to truly challenge me. The unusual nature of the items stolen, as well as their seemingly exorbitant value, had already stirred in me the beginnings of interest. The possibility that Mrs. Morecambe would prove to have the wits to devise an attack which might actually require my full attentions, made the case almost irresistible.

The threat of danger only lent a hint of spice to the affair for me. I will admit to a certain predilection for situations balanced on the edge of safety, though I will never admit as much to my biographer. My mind seems even sharper, more focused, when there is the possibility that things might go horribly wrong. 

The incentive of a trip to America, which I knew would please Watson, also drew me to the case. My old friend had been in the doldrums lately. The unseasonably humid summer was playing havoc with his war wound, and I could tell that he was in a good deal of pain, though of course he put on a brave front for my benefit. I also knew that Watson positively devoured tales of the "Wild West," as that area of the country was popularly known. I had discovered not a few dime novels secreted about the apartments, and had spotted my friend mooning over advertisements for Wild West shows when he thought I was engrossed in some experiment or other. 

For my part, my only knowledge of the area consisted of reading the various criminal activities committed across the sea. I will admit to the occasional odd thought about America's flamboyant bank and train robbers; it would be interesting to pit my intellect against some of the more resourceful of the criminals, to bring them to justice, as their own police seemed unable to do. I realized that I would likely never even glimpse such a master criminal, despite Watson's firm belief that the American West was populated with bank robbers, cowboys, and gunslingers.

I was positive that a trip overseas could only benefit my old friend, both in body and in spirit. That fact, coupled with the unusual points I have already mentioned, tipped the balance in my mind. In short, I determined that a visit to America was an excellent idea on all accounts, and agreed to take the case.

It only proves my earlier supposition when I state that Watson agreed to accompany me without a moment of hesitation. At this, I knew beyond a doubt that his suffering had been much greater than he had admitted. Usually, he hesitated before agreeing on an extended journey, often taking days to arrange his affairs and worrying that his patients might need him during his absence. This time, Watson simply notified one of his colleagues that he needed the man to look after his practice until our return, threw a few articles of clothing into a trunk, and pronounced himself ready to leave. 

Poor fellow had a rough time at first, owing to high winds offshore, which caused choppy seas along the Channel. In fact, he actually gave in to his discomfort enough to take to his cabin with a bottle of laudanum for the first few days of the voyage. Once we passed into cooler climes, however, he perked up enough to join me on deck and query me as to the particulars of the case. As I had suspected, my friend was excited at the prospect of visiting the "Wild West," and imagined countless adventures that might befall us. I had not the heart to contradict his version of the American Southwest, which featured daily train robberies and (of course) lonely widows in distress. 

Watson had imagined us traveling the country by stagecoach, and at first, his spirits fell as I explained that we would take a train to Colorado, and then pick up a small horse-drawn cart, of the sort that salesmen might favour. I managed to convince him that a pair of English newsmen, traveling with their sketching and photographic supplies, would not only account for any odd locations in which we might be caught, but would also distract the locals enough to draw away any suspicion.

"After all," I said, "who could imagine that a pair of eccentric British gentlemen might be plotting burglary?"

Watson shot me a glare that showed he was not entirely convinced, yet agreed to go along with the plan. I was familiar enough with the rudiments of photography to be able teach Watson the basic steps involved. We would not actually bother to develop any of the photographic plates, but we needed to appear authentic in order to allay suspicion.

I also stressed the importance of remaining absolutely in character to Watson. If Lord Blackburn's brother - who I will call Mr. Lancaster - heard even a rumour that Sherlock Holmes had been dispatched to retrieve his stolen artifacts, he would vanish into the wilderness - and I had no experience in trailing a criminal through the American desert. 

It proved more difficult to convince Watson of the possible danger should we encounter our female adversary. The good fellow seemed truly unable to believe that a woman could be as evil as Lord Blackburn had claimed. He heard me out as I informed him of the murders of her business rivals, yet he insisted that she could not actually be involved in the deaths.

"Can you not imagine," he said, "that perhaps a lady might find herself pressured to go along with the schemes of a male colleague? That perhaps she would be horrified to learn what occurred, but become aware of the hideous crimes too late to attempt to stop them?"

I sighed, and admitted that such a scenario might be possible. Watson finally agreed that we should take precautions as though facing an adversary willing to - and capable of - murder when thwarted in his or her plans (I confess to using the masculine pronoun at times, in order to further convince Watson of the seriousness of the situation). He followed whatever suggestions I made for increasing our security, though he continued, throughout our journey, to protest the ability of the weaker sex to engage in torture and murder. I refrained from reminding my friend of the many murderesses tried and executed in English courts, and merely considered myself lucky that he was willing to accede to my demands.

Thus, in due course, we found ourselves on the back trails of the Colorado wilderness, having procured a cart, two mules, and sufficient supplies. I chose a fairly small vehicle that would more easily be maneuvered along the rocky landscape. Our cart, essentially a box with a seat tacked onto the front, did not have space enough to mount bunks inside, so we had purchased what the Americans called "bedrolls" and a tent. What room the cart had was taken up on two sides with shelves, leaving a narrow aisle down the middle. Most of the shelves held boxes of photographic equipment - a camera, several boxes of plates, and flash powder. The remaining room was taken up by our food supplies and cooking utensils.

Not all the boxes which purported to contain equipment did so, however, and many of the containers which did, had false bottoms. Even in the unlikely event that the locals did become suspicious, it would be nearly impossible for them to prove us guilty of any wrongdoing. Once we had recovered Lord Blackburn's property, the items would be hidden away, and only Watson and I knew where the compartments were hidden and how to open them.

On the front wall inside the cart were several cupboards and a makeshift desk. The latter consisted of a board that could be raised and fastened against the wall, or lowered to serve as a writing surface or table. I had taken the precaution of purchasing a small safe, which I enclosed within the wall of the cart immediately behind the driver's seat, and disguised as one more cupboard in the row. When the desk was raised for travel, it covered the "cupboard" door completely, and when it was lowered, I could easily disguise its location by stacking equipment atop the desk. 

The safe held our passports (incriminating evidence, since our true names were printed there) and the documents of ownership we would need once we recovered the stolen artifacts, plus the money entrusted to us by Lord Blackburn. He had anticipated the possibility that his brother might be more amenable to returning the book if money changed hands. I attempted to convince Watson to store his pistol inside the safe, but he insisted that all Americans carried one, and tucked it into his coat pocket. I reassured myself with the thought that at least he had not decided to learn the "quick draw" technique.

Once we had packed up our cart, Holmes and Watson vanished. Instead, John Walker and Sigmund Hope, reporter and photographer from the Examiner, wandered the countryside looking for "authentic" scenes of the Old West.

We arrived at the appropriate location, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and set about collecting information. Mr. Lancaster had built his ranch close to the town of Bakersville, so Watson and I set up our base just outside of town. As is my practice, I allowed Watson to serve as distraction while I infiltrated the less savoury areas of the small town. Watson is a dear friend and loyal comrade, but it is nearly impossible for the man to tell a falsehood without blushing. This makes covert collection of information equally as impossible. No, Watson has other skills, upon which I do depend. I believe his readers have come to believe that Watson is less than intelligent, and that I tolerate his presence  
merely to demonstrate my own superiority by comparison. Nothing could be further from the truth. However, my friend has no talent for spying, a fact which he readily admits.

After our years of partnership, Watson and I work as a team almost effortlessly, each of us knowing what the other needs without having to rack our brains. Watson's value to me in such situations depends on the man's genuine interest in other people, and his ability to befriend almost everyone he meets. He so obviously enjoys people, that it is almost impossible to dislike the man, or to start an argument with him. I rely on my friend to draw attention away from myself, for people naturally gravitate toward his good-natured friendliness. I am then free to sift through the conversations around me, drawing out the strands of information that will be of use to me.

Bakersville seemed to be the quintessential Western town - one main street, unpaved and possessing only raised wooden sidewalks. Any movement along the streets, whether by the inhabitants, or by a horse or vehicle, raised clouds of dust, which then settled upon all available surfaces. Thus, we became quite accustomed to brushing ourselves off whenever we entered a building. The shopkeepers along these streets also seemed to spend a good bit of their time cleaning the sidewalks in front of their shops. Anywhere that dust might accumulate, it did.

I was happy to note that the sidewalks served as bases of operation for the older inhabitants of Bakersville. Practically every store had a small collection of elderly men ensconced in chairs or on benches, engaged in watching whatever happened in the town. It is usually a simple matter to gather information from such a group, for you need only mention a topic in passing, and the gentlemen will immediately relay one or more memories related to that topic (or not related, but interesting to them). I set about ingratiating myself to these colourful locals, purchasing quantities of tobacco to share and listening attentively to their tales (purportedly for the purposes of writing a newspaper article).

Watson, in the meanwhile, bustled about town, playing the exuberant Englishman. He photographed anything that seemed even remotely picturesque, loudly exclaimed over the wonders of the "Wild West," and expressed his fondest hope that he would meet a genuine cowboy or gunslinger. One of Watson's strengths is the fact that he truly has as buoyant a personality as he seems to. I am well aware of the horrors that my friend experienced during the war, yet they have not damaged him. Instead, he seems to have become more appreciative of life by virtue of seeing so much of it senselessly taken. The townspeople happily took my comrade under their collective wing, and directed him to one landmark after another. They were unable to produce a "gunslinger," but to my friend's great joy, the local doctor allowed him to ride along when he was summoned to a distant ranch. One of the ranch "hands" had been severely injured, and the doctor casually climbed aboard his buggy for a fifty-mile trek to the location. The distance was daunting, he admitted, however, he assured Watson that the ranch would be everything he could hope for, and would contain enough genuine cowboys to satiate even my friend's obsession.

Watson could talk of nothing else when he returned the next day. He burbled practically nonstop about cowboys, blacksmiths, lassos, and broncos. The small notebook that he invariably kept in one pocket was filled with Western phrases, which he attempted to teach me. I was forced to remind my old friend that I could not afford to clutter my mind with extraneous data, at which he grumbled a bit, but assented.  
I smiled across the campfire to see Watson's previously hopeless mood washed away in his excitement. The dry desert air seemed to loosen the stiff muscles of his old war wound, and I could see a distinct fluidity in his movements. His nearly constant aches seemed to have diminished as well, and I noticed that he had returned the laudanum bottle to the bottom of his trunk. Even if this case should prove a complete fiasco, I would count it a success to see my old friend restored to his previous self.

If Watson had been made the town's fair-haired adopted son, then I was the red-haired stepchild. I had decided that Sigmund Hope was quite the wastrel, and could usually be found in the saloon, drinking (I am an expert at seeming to drink, but also have the useful ability to "hold" my alcohol better than most). Mr. Hope also played poker, though not well - people will talk more willingly to a man whose money they are winning, than to one who is taking money from them. The wretched character also frequented the bawdy houses, where he did become quite well liked among the "soiled doves." These pitiful women responded so gratefully to my alter ego's unaccustomed respect that I felt almost guilty encouraging them to confide in me. 

After nearly a week spent overcoming the natural suspicion of the locals, sifting through the vast quantities of information presented, I learned the unfortunate fact that Mr. Lancaster had suddenly - less than a week before we arrived - hired two bodyguards and vanished into the hills. No one with whom I spoke had any idea of the reason behind such an odd move, though everyone had an opinion.

The most popular view was that one of the other ranchers had threatened Mr. Lancaster's life, forcing him to hire gunmen for protection. The fact that, in such a case, the man would have hired a small army and fortified his own home for defense seemed not to have occurred to any who supported this supposition. The remaining possibilities offered for my approval ran the gamut from fairly plausible (Mr. Lancaster had located a hidden vein of gold, and had hired bodyguards to insure that no one discovered the area) to completely ludicrous (Mr. Lancaster was being pursued by an overly ardent widow intent on "having her way" with him, thus necessitating the aforementioned bodyguards to defend his virtue).

Only one person with whom I spoke - a weathered and wizened fellow employed at the local livery stable - had anything close to the information that I needed. The elderly man downed the beer that I bought, looked expectantly at me until I paid for another, and smacked his nearly toothless gums.

"Mr. Lancaster," he said, leaning over the table in a conspiratorial manner, "has a woman after him. But she ain't looking to marry him."

I raised my brows to signal my interest and waved to the bartender, for a third round. The grizzled gentleman put a finger aside his nose and nodded. "I seen her, with that fellow she's got traveling with her. And they ain't husband and wife, neither! I took a peek at the hotel register, and they signed different names - but they just took the one room!"

He paused to gulp half his beer. "Mister," he continued, "you don't want to cross those two! That man she got with her? He's got a look in his eye that reminds me of a rattlesnake. Cold, he is - cold and dead inside. They brung their hosses to my stable, and he give me a blamed lecture on how to treat his animal -- me! As if I ain't worked with hosses all my blamed life!"

His gaze slid downward and to the left as he reminisced. A frown creased his brow. "And Mister, when that man looked at me, I swear it was like somebody walked over my grave. He looked right through me like I was some piece of furniture or something, like I weren't even human to him."

He paused, his expression somber as he searched his memory. "I truly think that man would kill you as soon as look at you, for no reason at all. And the woman - she don't look as hard as he does, but her mouth is cruel. I just don't trust either of them at all."

He fell silent for a moment. "I just can't imagine what them two would want with Mr. Lancaster," he added. "He's as upright and decent a man as you could hope to meet. But I do know they ain't aiming to ask him to Sunday dinner. I only hope them two men he hired are good enough to keep him alive."

That evening, Watson and I retired to our campsite, and I shared what I had learned. "I believe Mr. Lancaster may have taken one or more of the antiquities with him," I added. "The fact that he hired outsiders indicates that he doesn't want anyone who knows him to learn where he's gone - and indicates that he fears one or more of his employees may not be loyal to him."

Watson frowned. "How are we going to locate the man, Holmes?" he asked. "We no nothing of the countryside, and obviously these two bodyguards are hired gunmen, like those I've read about. You and I are no match for a quick-draw expert."

I shot him a quick glance from the corner of my eye. Though he professed worry, I suspected that he rather hoped we would run into such a man. I had the thought that, if he were to be shot, my friend might actually not notice the fact in his delight at meeting a real "gunslinger."  
"I doubt it will come to that," I murmured. I refrained from disillusioning my companion, but hired thugs are hired thugs, no matter the country of origin. The pair that Mr. Lancaster had hired would most likely be the sort who would shoot you in the back from a dark alley rather than the "noble gunman" of whom Watson had read so many tales. 

"Mr. Lancaster obviously has some means of learning when it's safe to return," I continued. "I suggest we retrieve whatever artifacts may remain at his ranch, then withdraw to watch what happens."

This was accomplished with relative ease. As the reader must be aware from my comrade's writings, I possess several skills that can easily be utilized for either side of the law, and I rarely hesitate to use whatever means necessary to bring a case to a close. I had brought my set of lock picking tools with me to America, and it was a simple matter to pull down a section of fence at one end of the pasture, allowing the horses Mr. Lancaster raised to wander out and distract the employees. Our efforts were aided by the fact that we chose to visit the ranch just before dawn, when there was barely enough light to be able to see the locks upon which I was working. We managed to enter without alerting the cook, whom we heard singing in the back of the house, and I found that Mr. Lancaster had little imagination when it came to hiding his wall safe (behind a large painting in the study).

In short, we burgled the ranch.

Once the recovered items were safely tucked away in the various equipment cases, the "reporters" decamped and drove further into the wilderness. We had professed our intention of photographing the scenic wonders of the American desert for our newspaper, and the townspeople had given Watson directions to several landmarks within the immediate vicinity. I planned to wander more or less aimlessly for a week or so, in order to give Mr. Lancaster the chance to communicate with his confederates. In the meantime, I remained in touch myself via the usual network of street urchins whom I had recruited throughout town. Obviously, a small town didn't have the resources of London, but I had located a good half dozen lads willing to earn the odd coin by sending telegraphs to various isolated railway stations, and riding out to leave messages at predetermined hiding places.

For the first week or so, these messages and telegrams consisted of useless rumor. I felt certain that a criminal gang had not taken over Mr. Lancaster's ranch, nor had the man himself turned out to be a notorious bank robber fleeing from justice. However, toward the middle of our third week in the wilderness, I received a telegram that peaked my interest. A farmer, trusted to be a reliable witness, claimed to have seen one of Mr. Lancaster's two bodyguards riding across his land. And he claimed that the man was followed by two mysterious men dressed completely in black.

Though I was not certain, I felt that the two men must be allied with Mrs. Morecambe. The question was whether they were being led by the bodyguard, or whether they were following unnoticed. I determined to reverse our course and return to Bakersville for a more thorough investigation of the new information. My plan hit a snag as we entered a rocky canyon around sunset, only to find that the small river, which we had forded not three days ago, now roared only a few inches beneath the top of its banks.

"Good Lord, Holmes, and it hasn't even rained!" Watson exclaimed, stepping gingerly to the edge of the water. He grimaced at the rushing brown flood, and involuntarily took a step back as a large tree branch swept past. The boulders, which before had dotted the nearly dry riverbed, now formed convoluted channels through which the river poured.

I stared down at the raging water as well, but for a different reason. Even in the fading daylight, the pale length of a human body showed quite clearly against the darkened water. With a sigh, I reached for the rope we kept coiled in the back of the cart, and anchored one end to the axle. Watson, whose eye did not automatically seek out the unusual as did mine, turned, and observed me with surprise.

"It must have rained further up in the hills," I remarked, tying the other end of the rope about my waist. "And I'm afraid that the flood has washed a few unpleasant items downstream."

With that, I waded carefully into the river. I barely heard Watson's cry of "Holmes!" before the current swept me off my feet. Energetic kicking on my part kept me from colliding with a boulder, and maneuvered me so that I fetched up against the logjam I had spotted. To my relief, I found myself only a foot or so away from the limp body. 

The barrier against which we were pressed by the force of the current was formed of a tangle of large tree branches that had lodged against the boulders in the river. Woven through these was a mishmash of smaller branches, uprooted shoots, and even a few planed boards. Through the open spaces between the debris, I could see where the water plunged several feet, to begin a series of rapids. I will admit that my heart beat faster at the thought of the branches working loose before I could pull my way back to the cart.

I put out a hand to grasp the corpse. No way to tell how long he'd been here, not with the cold water rushing past and lowering the body temperature. He'd been pressed facedown onto the barrier, so that his arms and legs were tangled in the branches. There was no clothing, but at this point I had no way of determining whether the rushing water had torn it loose or if he had gone into the river naked. 

I maneuvered my way until I was directly behind him, and threaded the rope beneath his arms. At this point, I discovered two things that changed the nature of my impromptu mission. First, the man's wrists were bound together with a tight strip of rawhide. And second, the angle at which he'd been held against the branch had forced the water to flow completely over his head, leaving an air pocket directly behind the log. I knew this because as soon as my body interrupted this current, the " corpse" spasmed against me in search of air.

Moving quickly, I slid one arm around his chest and pulled his head above the surface. Seeing that he was at least alert enough to cling weakly to the branch, I took time to make another pass around his body with the rope, and knot it, ensuring that he would be pulled from the water along with myself. I then had quite a time untangling limbs - human from tree. I could see the man's strength ebbing as I worked, and by the time I was ready to haul my way back to shore, his face was barely above the water's surface.

Tucking my hand beneath his chin to keep his face clear, I waved the other hand to Watson. Bless him, the old soldier had quickly caught on to my plans, and tugged the mules into action. Soon, I was hauled from the current, and I scrambled to pull the other man along with me up the rocky bank. Watson hurried over and made a long arm, which I grasped happily.

Our unexpected guest had used up all his strength in the current, and merely flopped onto his stomach, coughing weakly. I felt much the same, and spent some few moments catching my breath. Watson, given a patient who needed him, hurried to the cart for a blanket and his medical supplies (which I had insisted he pack into an ordinary bag rather than the all too obvious medical satchel he ordinarily carried). He quickly undid the ropes from the two of us, and rolled his patient carefully onto the blanket.

"Good Lord, Hol-- er ... Hope!" Watson exclaimed, catching sight of the man's injuries. "Do you think it could be Red Indians?" He glanced around at the darkening horizons with concern.

"While I am no expert on the customs of the local natives," I replied, finally regaining my breath enough to scrutinize our guest more thoroughly. "I doubt that this is their work. If you notice, the small burns dotting his torso are indicative of the lit end of a cigarette pressed against the skin." 

Watson shuddered as he imagined this scenario, but nodded his agreement. "Further," I added. "You can see the abrasion at the base of his neck, which would seem to be from some sort of noose. I suggest that he was subdued in this fashion, then bound and persuaded to talk. What remains to be seen is whether the information his captors sought was the information that we also need."

Watson busied himself cutting the rawhide from the man's wrists, which did not look to be a pleasant job, as the straps had cut deeply into the skin. At least the patient was only semi-conscious, and didn't seem to feel the operation much. Of course, the numbing effects of cold water also played some part. I took advantage of my friend's distraction to thoroughly examine his patient in my own fashion.

The man was young - perhaps somewhere in his second decade. Aside from the injuries, he seemed in excellent health. His body was lean and wiry, but well nourished. I deduced that he made his living by physical labour - most likely outside, as his face and hands were tanned slightly darker than the rest of his skin. His hair was dark. The face was somewhat angular, with a sharp chin and upturned nose, but was not unhandsome. The callouses were quite interesting - I was not certain I had ever seen an exact match. The closest comparison I could make to the ones on his fingertips was to certain professional burglars who regularly utilized a set of lock picks, however, the match was not exact. I could not place the other callouses at all. I did note that the man used his hands a great deal, for they possessed prominent tendons and musculature. Oddly enough, the skin of the fingers and palm seemed softer than the rest of the body, as if he took pains to protect his hands from damage. 

As I could find no indication of any habitual activity I could recognize - he lacked the callouses of a writer, the enlarged musculature caused by hard labour, and the poor condition of a drug user, for example - I could only go by the limited data at hand. Taking into account the odd callouses and well-protected but muscular hands, I hypothesized that our guest might be a professional gambler (I believe the Americans called them "card sharps"). He could also be a burglar, but I doubted that he was the flamboyant sort Watson read about, who leapt onto moving trains and wrestled a stagecoach team to a halt. 

Of course, without the man's clothing, I was deprived of half of the data I typically utilized to formulate those deductions which never failed to astonish Watson. There was also the fact that the floodwaters had washed clean any evidence such as ink or chemical stains. I was not able to determine if the bruises on the face and body were from a beating, from a trip through the boulder-strewn river, or from any combination of the two. I doubted the young man would know himself, once he regained consciousness. 

I moved aside to allow the good doctor full access to his patient once more. "Does anything seem to be broken?" I asked my comrade once he had performed his own examination.

"Miraculously not," Watson replied. "He has been bruised and battered, but I can find no sign of internal injury, nor any broken bones."

"That is indeed good news. However, in the absence of any additional information," I continued my previous conversation, "I must assume that our friend has run afoul of the delightful Mrs. Morecambe or her cohorts."

"Dear Lord," Watson murmured. I could see that he had begun to consider the possibility that the woman might be participating of her own free will. It is one thing to believe she knew nothing of any criminal activity until it was too late to protest, quite another to believe she would cross the ocean and mindlessly fall into the midst of still more crimes. 

For my part, I was certain that Mrs. Morecambe sat at the head of whatever group could claim responsibility for the convenient deaths of her opponents. According to my informant from the stables, her partner in these deeds was a man who would likely enjoy causing pain. I felt certain that they had intended our guest's death once he had supplied them with the information they wanted. Either they had thrown him into the flood to drown, or he had somehow escaped before their torture had been completed and thrown himself in. If the latter, I thought he probably planned to suicide rather than remain in their hands. Surely his captors would not anticipate his survival in such roiling waters.

I shared my thoughts with Watson, and then looked thoughtfully at the body I'd fished up. "In any case, I believe we can safely assume, for the moment, that no one is looking for him."


	2. The Adventure of the Not-So-Innocent Bystander (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is deep in a case the brings him to the American West when he runs into a familiar figure

Watson glanced back at the river with a nervous expression. "I would feel better," he said. "If we did not camp here tonight. Not only because his enemies might follow the river to locate his body, but also in case the water should overflow the riverbank."

I helped Watson to hoist the unresisting man into the cart, where we wrapped him in another blanket and settled him onto the floor. We returned to our previous campsite a few miles away, and set about the usual tasks involved with sleeping outdoors. I gathered a good stack of firewood and started our campfire. Watson set up the tent in the place it had been last night, and brought out the cooking utensils. I then began preparing the evening meal, while Watson fussed over his patient. It seemed that the young man was recovering from his ordeal, for Watson reported he'd fallen into a more natural sleep instead of the semi-conscious stupor he'd exhibited earlier.

I thought it likely that he would have difficulty swallowing with the deep rope burn around his throat, so I decided on a stew and plenty of hot tea for our meal. Our guest roused just as the stew reached perfection. Hearing movement from within the cart, I glanced over to see him looking warily around the camp, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"Good evening," I called softly. I noticed the sudden tension in his shoulders, and motioned to Watson, who'd half risen, to resume his seat. "We're about to dine. Would you care to join us?"

The man slowly maneuvered himself into an upright position, depending a good bit upon the cart for support. His eyes never stopped moving, as he inventoried the campsite, the surrounding countryside, and ourselves. Only when he seemed certain that we were alone did he gingerly lower himself to the ground, clutching the blanket around himself. I judged from his pained expression that one or both of his feet had been bruised along with the rest of his body.

With another careful look around, he limped slowly to the fire. Watson could no longer control his instincts, and rose to help the young man lower himself to a seat on a rock. I could see the effort it cost the man not to flinch from this stranger, and shot Watson a meaningful glance. He took the hint, and returned to his own seat once the other was settled.

I watched our unexpected guest as I spooned up our meal. I first thought to simply pass him a plate, but his muscles tensed as I reached towards him, so I set the plate down on a rock close to him. He stared somberly at me, and then nodded at my understanding. He was not able to relax over his meal, however. Not a minute passed that the dark eyes didn't glance one way or another, checking the surroundings. Whenever Watson or I shifted on our seats, or reached to pour more tea, those eyes immediately focused on us. I noticed, as well, that the seat he had chosen put his back to a large boulder.

Of course, I knew many men in London who exhibited such vigilance. Almost all of them were members of the criminal class. I did allow this lad the probability that his recent horrific experience had heightened his natural caution, however, I suspected that he had strayed from the side of the law at one time or another.

He had yet to say a word, though he bent over his dinner as though he had not eaten in quite a while. I noticed the slight wince with each swallow. Once everyone had eaten his fill, I poured another cup of tea and prepared to learn about our visitor. I had noticed that he looked askance at our choice of beverage, but he made no complaint and drank eagerly, adding a good amount of sugar to each cup. He seemed surprised when I offered the can of condensed milk, and shook his head.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Walker and myself are partial to tea," I remarked. "We brought no coffee with us."

Watson chuckled. "We are English, after all."

For an instant, a disappointed expression crossed his face, and then he shrugged. The movement obviously pained him, and Watson frowned in concern. "I have a bottle of laudanum," he said. "Please take it. You can barely move without pain!"

"No!" our guest exclaimed. His voice was hoarse and raspy, and I wondered if the rope might have seriously damaged his throat.  
He shook his head, and raised one hand in a conciliatory manner. "Thanks," he said in a calmer tone. "But I can't afford to be drugged up if those loco hombres track me down."

"Ah," I said. " I was going to ask about that, if the subject is not too painful to think about."

I saw a flash of panic in those dark eyes, but he swallowed and nodded.

"Do you know who they were?" I asked. 

"Are they likely to follow you?" Watson added, worry plain in his voice.

A humorless smile spread briefly across the man's face. "I can't say I know them personally, but I know who they are," he said. "I got no idea how they got in front of me, but they rigged a rope across the trail, right at neck level. And I got no idea if they're going to come after me."

He took a deep breath. "Once they finished round one," he said, indicating the cigarette burns with one hand, "I made out to be more dopey than I really was. While I was lying there beside the creek, I heard the words 'pliers' and 'fingernails' in the same sentence, and I decided a nice, peaceful death by drowning would suit me better."

I glanced at Watson. The poor man had an expression of horror on his face. "You leaped into the flood," he murmured, "believing you leaped to your death. What a terrible choice you had to make."

The man glanced at the good doctor, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged once more. "I got no idea how far downstream that creek carried me. I got even less of an idea how I survived." 

"I can scarcely credit it," Watson exclaimed.

I watched our guest's face carefully as I framed my next question. "Do you mind telling us what reason those men would have to treat you like this?"

He gave a humorless chuckle. "Mister, one of them men was a woman!"

"And as to why," he added, shooting me a suspicious glare from beneath lowered brows. "Let's just say we disagreed over who owned a particular item, and leave it at that."

Watson's eyes had widened, and he leaned forward. "Are you saying a woman did this?" he asked in horror. He looked at me in dismay.

Our visitor shook his head slowly. "I don't remember her actually ... getting her hands dirty, so to speak," he said. "But she told them what to do, and she sure looked like she enjoyed watching."

"Good Lord!" Watson exclaimed softly.

The man leaned forward, looking across the fire into my eyes. "I got to ask you something, Mister, he said. 

I belatedly realized my manners, and smiled apologetically. "I fear we have neglected the niceties. My name is Sigmund Hope. This is my colleague John Walker."

Our guest nodded to each of us. "Joshua Smith," he said in reply.

"Mr. Hope," he continued. "I got to get to a job by the end of the week. Would it be alright if I hitched a ride with you as far as the next town?"

"Of course," I answered with some surprise. 

Watson exclaimed at nearly the same time, "We couldn't possibly leave you here in the middle of nowhere without any possessions!"

Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow as he looked from Watson to myself, seeming somewhat surprised. "Well, it can't be more than two or three miles into Bakersville," he said. "But I'd be grateful to save my feet. Which way are you fellows headed?"

Watson replied in a peevish voice, "We were going to Bakersville, but that blasted river put paid to that plan."

"River?" Our guest stared at Watson for a moment. "Oh, you mean the creek. Hell, it'll probably be back to normal in a couple of days. Of course, you can always head the other way and try Spencer's Corner."

Watson looked to me for my opinion. I shrugged my acceptance of the situation. "We can hardly take the cart across that flood," I said. "And I can't see much difference between photographing the next town and photographing Bakersville." 

I also had two additional ideas on my mind. First, though there was a chance that we might miss Mr. Lancaster returning to his ranch while we were stranded on this side of the water, I thought it much more likely that I had inadvertently rescued the bodyguard spotted by the Bakersville farmer. I needed more information, yet this would require careful handling. The poor fellow had been traumatized to the point where he would react with suspicion to any blatant attempts at interrogation. My second thought was how to proceed ... how to gain the man's trust.

"Before we make plans to decamp," I said with a smile, "I believe that you would benefit from the loan of a shirt and trousers. I fear we have no spare footwear to offer you."

For a moment, he stared at me in silence, then an honest smile spread across the angular face, completely altering his appearance. He had seemed, up to this point, to be a hard man who depended on no one, one of those solitary souls so common to the American West. His body language and expressions had plainly communicated suspicion and cynicism. He had expected indifferent, perhaps even hostile treatment from the two of us, and I felt that our compassion had truly surprised him. 

He had a contagious smile, and I found myself returning it. His dark eyes twinkled, and dimples creased his cheeks. He pulled the blanket more firmly around himself. "It would be nice not to feel a breeze on my privates," he said. "And I look like some old Indian chief wrapped up in this blanket. I keep wanting to say 'How' and ask for wampum."

Watson shot me a puzzled look, and I shrugged to indicate that I had not understood the allusion either. It was evidently some sort of local humour, aimed at the native population, but it hardly seemed germane to the case, so I ignored it. Our guest struggled to his feet - Watson practically whimpered with frustration when I motioned for him not to help. It was obvious to me that the other man suffered from an involuntary revulsion to being touched - a natural result of his ordeal. Despite his willingness to talk, and his seeming relaxation in our presence, he could not help but flinch whenever one of us moved suddenly, or came too close to him. 

We returned to the cart and rummaged through our supplies. My clothing, which I had chosen for the role of profligate dandy, consisted of more formal choices than those Watson had brought for his role. I offered our guest one of the plainer shirts, but the sleeves hung a good inch past his hands, due to my excessive height. The tail of the shirt reached below his knees. Mr. Smith smoothed a hand over the pale lavender, starched front of the garment, glanced at me, and quirked his lips in a crooked smile. "Real fancy," he said with a wink. "This might make a nice outfit for the town social, though I'm not sure I want to show up in a dress. Maybe Mr. Walker has something a little more casual."

Although Watson's stockier build meant that his clothing hung loosely upon our guest, he had brought along more rugged clothing for his role as photographer. Mr. Smith was soon clad in tough woolen trousers with one of Watson's older shirts, which I now noted was in need of a bit of mending - my comrade was hard on his clothing, and tended to ignore such things as missing buttons and small rips until Mrs. Hudson stepped in to make repairs. Our guest jury-rigged a belt from one end of our rope, and declared the results satisfactory. 

"I'm in your debt," he said with a grin. "You saved my life, and now you saved my decency."

I found myself liking the fellow, even while mistrusting his motives. Until I had further information, I must assume that he would do whatever was within his power to protect his employer (who must surely be Mr. Lancaster), and to keep me from recovering the stolen antiquities. Despite this, I had to admire a man who, pulled from a flood scarcely five hours before, half drowned and tortured, still was able to find humour in his situation.

We returned to the campfire, where I reheated the kettle and offered another cup of tea all around. Our guest raised an eyebrow, but accepted a cup.

"You fellows sure do drink a lot of tea," he muttered. Watson chuckled.

I brought out my pipe and prepared a smoke. I noticed the longing expression on our guest's face, and regretted aloud that I had brought no spare pipe. However, he told me he would be happy if I would share some loose tobacco and a scrap of paper. He proceeded to roll a rough cigarette, a process I found fascinating. Once it was lit, he took a deep breath and leaned back on his rock with a smile of satisfaction.

"I missed tobacco nearly as much as I missed food and water," he said. "Now all I need is a cup of coffee, and I'd be in hog heaven."

He quickly added, with a smile at Watson, "not that I'm ragging on you for not having any coffee, you understand. I'm just saying."

"Tell me, Mr. Smith," I queried, "Do you have some means of traveling to your job once we reach Spencer's Corner?"

He flashed me a wide grin. "The ranch foreman ought to be willing to advance me a little pay once I send him a telegram. I can catch the next train." 

"Of course," I added with a smile of my own, "that will require the loan of the price of a telegram."

"Only until he wires me the money," Mr. Smith said, suddenly serious once more. "I don't want to take advantage of you gentlemen. I'm going to repay you for everything."

"Tut tut!" Watson huffed. "I should hope that any decent human being would help another in such difficulties. We shall drive you to your destination and save you the price of a train ticket."

Mr. Smith shot him a wry smile. "I guess I ain't met too many decent human beings so far," he said. "But I'm not sure I could let you drive that far out of your way for no good reason. Us Westerners don't hold too much with charity. Folks out here mostly mind their own business and take care of themselves."

"How very sad," my associate replied, forgetting in the moment that most people living within our own city had much the same outlook. 

"Well," Mr. Smith muttered, staring into his cup of tea, "at least most of them don't string a fellow up and use him as an ashtray."

I had to chuckle at that, and he glanced up with a quick grin of his own. I noticed that the man seemed to have a smile constantly lurking at the corners of his mouth, now that he was recovering somewhat from his ordeal. Even when his expression turned serious, a deep dimple in his left cheek hinted that, at any second, he might find some facet of the situation humorous. I could not determine, at this point, whether this indicated a truly optimistic outlook, or if the man were simply a most talented con artist who instinctively deflected attention from himself. Either way, I enjoyed his wit.

Watson, though, seemed to find it in poor taste to joke about torture. He glared at us with an expression of disappointment on his honest face. I decided to have a long talk with my colleague once our guest fell asleep again - which, by the way his eyelids had begun drooping, should not be much longer.

"I'm sure you are exhausted, Mr. Smith," I said. "Please feel free to retire whenever you wish. Mr. Walker and I have our bedrolls, so you are welcome to the cart." I thought that the security of the enclosed cart would appeal to our guest after his experiences, and this seemed to be the case. Muttering his excuses, he rose stiffly to his feet and shuffled to his makeshift bed, closing the door once he was inside.

"Poor fellow," murmured Watson. "His wounds must pain him horribly."

"I actually feel he is recovering admirably," I replied. "I did not like to ask him how long he was held captive, but I suspect he suffers more from the strain of muscles held in one position for too long."

"He does seem in remarkable good spirits," my colleague agreed. "Though I found many of his remarks to be in poor taste."

I chuckled, and clapped Watson on the back. "I took them as his way of whistling in the dark, my friend. And you must remember that the Americans here in the West utilize a more vulgar speech than we are used to."

"That is certainly true," muttered the good fellow, who had blushed horribly upon his first exposure to the ribald language in the Bakersville saloons. "Americans are so much more ... volatile than our countrymen."

I smiled. "I'm not entirely certain that is necessarily a bad thing, my friend. It seems that Mr. Smith's irreverent comments are venting some of the emotion created by his ordeal. I wonder if such ready release of their inner feelings might not be more effective than our traditional 'stiff upper lip' is."

"I still believe there are some jokes which are simply in poor taste," Watson muttered. We continued to converse for a short time,  
then my exertions caught up to me. I retired to my bedroll, leaving Watson to contemplate the vulgarity of our American cousins.

As is usual when I am caught up in an interesting case, I needed little sleep, and woke well before dawn. My fellow campers seemed wrapped in slumber still - Watson I was certain of, as I could hear gentle snores coming from the direction of his bedroll, and Smith I surmised from the closed cart. I crept from the tent and gathered my tobacco and pipe. As the reader is no doubt aware, when faced with unexpected information on a case, I prefer to sit and think before taking any action.

The embers of the campfire still glowed softly, and I quietly added enough wood to restore the flame. Setting the kettle on for tea, I filled my pipe and sat back to meditate. There are three basic levels of information in any case: known truth, likely truth, and possible truth. Obviously, Smith had met up with our opponents. Therefore, obviously, Mrs. Morecambe believed that he possessed some sort of information that she needed. Also obviously, he had successfully resisted the efforts of Mrs. Morecambe and her colleague to obtain this knowledge. 

Probably, Mr. Smith worked for Mr. Lancaster. Probably, he was one of the two men hired to guard that gentleman. And probably, he was involved in moving and hiding the stolen antiquities. Therefore, probably, Mr. Lancaster had set up some way of contact in an emergency.

I was less certain about other facts. Possibly, Smith knew where Mr. Lancaster and the artifacts were hidden. Possibly, Lancaster was hidden in one location and the stolen antiques in an entirely different one. And possibly, Lancaster would be amenable to negotiating with me in regards to the entire situation. I ruminated for another few minutes, and added one more - possibly, Mr. Smith might be willing to assist me if I explained the truth to him.

Of course, the probability that the man's name actually was Smith was quite small.

I had, as I saw it, three options that would offer any chance of success. I could pretend ignorance of the entire situation, and secretly follow our guest in hopes that he would lead me to his employer. I saw little to recommend this choice -- it would be slow, boring, and uncomfortable. I could attempt to obtain the information I needed by stealth - I neither condoned torture nor believed that it would work in this case - by slipping a potent narcotic into the man's food or drink, and questioning him while he was in a semi-conscious state. This struck me as too near the treatment he had already received, and the idea discomforted me. The third option, the one most attractive to me, was telling the man the truth and negotiating a mutually beneficial solution. 

By the time Watson stirred from the tent, the sun had risen. I had smoked two pipes, had three cups of tea, and was just setting the saucepan onto the fire to make our morning oatmeal. Watson, less alert in the mornings than I, grumbled through his ablutions and shuffled over to pour his first cup of tea, rubbing his eyes. Our guest, understandably, was having a bit of a lie in.

Watson and I enjoyed our breakfast, and went for a short but brisk walk to get the blood flowing. By the time we returned, Mr. Smith had risen. Watson greeted the man, but professed his intention of returning to the tent in order to update his journal, which he had sadly neglected over the past few weeks. I was well aware that he regularly posted excerpts from these diaries to his publisher, to determine which of my "adventures" would be detailed next. 

I poured the last of the tea into my cup and nodded to Mr. Smith. The man looked much improved, and had borrowed Watson's razor to shave. As I sat down across the fire from him, I noticed that he had steeped his cup of tea much longer than an Englishman would - the liquid was nearly black. He saw my inquiring glance, and shrugged.

"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he said. His voice was still hoarse and raspy. 

I inclined my head in agreement. "You have hit upon the perfect segue into the topic which I wish to introduce," I said. "What a man must do."

Mr. Smith narrowed his eyes. He slowly set his cup down on the rock beside him. I could see his muscles tensing, and quickly spoke again.

"I mean only what we must do accomplish our goals! I am not declaring any hostile intent."

He relaxed somewhat, but still stared suspiciously across the campfire. He did retrieve his tea, and sipped at it while I spoke.

"To begin with, my friend and I are not exactly what we seem. We have been sent with word for your employer from his brother, who is the rightful owner of the object you mentioned earlier."

I noticed Smith's shoulders had tensed once more, but he said nothing. 

"I am being honest with you," I said. "I would like to find some way for us to resolve this situation amiably. Lord Blackburn is willing to negotiate with his brother on the matter of the book."

My guest's eyes widened very slightly at the mention of the artifact, and I nodded. "The fact that I am aware it is a book should convince you that, at the least, I have had some dealing with a family member. I can only assure you that I am employed by Lord Blackburn, and not by his homicidal sister. I can understand if you feel you cannot trust my word."

A crooked smile flashed across his face, and Smith nodded. "If the lady I ran into is your fellow's sister, I don't reckon you're in her pay," he said, "You'd already have me hanging from one of those trees, with the pliers in your hand if that were the case. But I think you got the wrong idea about my boss. I never heard of no book or no Lord Blackburn."

I smiled in return. "As I said, I am being honest." I lit a pipe, and passed the tobacco pouch across to my guest. "As you Americans put it," I continued. "I am laying my cards on the table. I can only hope that you would be equally honest in return."

"I'll be glad to," he said, taking a deep pull on his cigarette. "But I just don't know what you're talking about."

I sighed. "Mr. Smith, either you were tortured by a totally unrelated woman who behaves exactly as Lord Blackburn's sister would, for a totally unrelated reason which has coincidentally occurred at precisely the same moment as Lord Blackburn's difficulties - or you were tortured by Mrs. Morecambe in an attempt to discover where Mr. Lancaster has hidden the book."

Smith let out a strangled cough, and put a hand to his mouth. Tobacco smoke streamed from his nostrils. His dark eyes studied me from lowered brows. We sat in silence for a long moment, and then Smith dropped his gaze. He shook his head, and I heard a soft laugh. "I gotta say," he muttered. "I ain't admitting nothing, but that was the most convoluted argument I believe I've ever heard. I think your partner ought to write that down in his journal for posterity."

I inclined my head in acknowledgement of his dubious compliment. "Be that as it may," I said, "I wish that you would trust me enough to drop this pretense so that we may work on some solution to this problem."

"I took a long pull on my pipe, and added, "Not the least of our difficulties is how we may all avoid the further attentions of our lady friend and her comrade."

A shiver passed through Smith's body. His face hardened, and I could see that he was reliving some moment of the past few days. Then, he glanced at me, his eyes narrowed. He must have seen something in my face that reassured him, for he nodded.

"Alright," he said. "I'm willing to listen. Talk."

"Thank you. As I said, I have a message for Mr. Lancaster from his brother."

"Back up a minute," Smith said. "What was all that about the brother being the rightful owner of that damned book? Lancaster's the owner as far as I'm concerned."

I explained the situation to my guest. I had surmised before this point that the man was more educated than he admitted. Several times, he had used language that an ignorant ranch hand would not have known, and he had followed my admittedly convoluted argument without difficulty. Now, he not only understood my synopsis of English law, but also asked several quite pointed questions, which proved my hypothesis. Mr. Smith was not the uneducated thug that he pretended to be. My next question was, why would he wish to appear less intelligent?

"So Lancaster really doesn't own it," Smith mused. He finished off his cigarette and dropped the butt into the fire. "I know that book's worth millions, so I doubt you're going to convince him to just hand it over."

I nodded. "Lord Blackburn is, as I said, willing to negotiate. He wishes, not to sell the book, but to restore the stolen items to his father's collection. I believe his ultimate goal is to donate the collection to our National Museum."

Smith gave a low whistle. "Donate millions of dollars worth of antiques to some museum!" he said. "Tell your Lord Blackburn he can donate some of that to me if he wants."

I smiled. "I, also, would appreciate having enough funds that such a donation would be merely an afterthought, of no concern."

"Damn right! How many millions does this fellow have anyway?"

"I have no idea," I replied honestly. "I can report that my partner and I are being paid quite an adequate salary, in addition to which Lord Blackburn has purchased all of the equipment and transportation we have required."

Smith's eyes narrowed, and a calculating look came over his face. "I don't suppose he'd let you hire a couple of assistants, now, would he?"

I laughed aloud. "Mr. Smith, if you help me to negotiate a satisfactory solution to Lord Blackburn's problem, I will happily broach the subject of a monetary reward for you and your partner."

A wide smile spread across his face at this. Then, he sobered. "I ain't gonna do nothing to betray Lancaster, you understand," he said. "I'm just gonna help you set up a talk."

I nodded. "Walker and I are Englishmen," I said. "We do not walk about armed, as you Americans do. He has a pistol, but we generally leave it in the cart. I do not possess any firearms at all."

"Neither do I," the man said sadly. "And that was the first pistol I ever bought. I had it since I was just a kid."

I had never understood the American passion for firearms, and could think of nothing to say to this statement. Smith sat in silence for a moment, then seemed to shake off the mood and met my gaze once more.

"I don't know where they are," he said. "The deal was, we split up so Mrs. -- was it Morecambe?" I nodded, impressed at his recollection. "So Mrs. Morecambe wouldn't know which of us had the book. And whichever one of us did have it, the other one wouldn't know where the first one was headed, or where the first one was planning to hide it, and the first one wouldn't know how the other one was going to distract Mrs. Morecambe."

I smiled broadly at this. "Congratulations," I said. "That was an even more convoluted argument than mine. As I understand it, your partner took the book, and didn't tell you where he was going."

Smith nodded. "So if we were captured, there was no way I'd be able to give the location away." Once again, his eyes clouded as he thought about his capture. "I gotta say, it worked a treat."

I found my admiration of the man increasing the more I talked with him. His sarcasm in the face of his own pain, his quick understanding of the situation, his obviously superior memory -- even the way he attempted to disguise his own intelligence -- attracted me. I found myself wanting to understand the intriguing young man. The fact that he was probably a criminal in no way affected my interest. Watson had never become reconciled to this facet of my personality. He felt that, having spent much of my life in pursuit of criminals; I should abhor all such men. In fact, I have found that criminals are generally more interesting people than the so-called honest citizens. At least, they are open about their lawlessness.

Of course, I could be completely mistaken about Smith's profession. And his name might actually be Smith.

I would not wager a ha'penny on such odds, however.

Watson reappeared from the tent, journal in hand. "I just need to corroborate some facts," he began, then noticed our intense expressions. He detoured to the campfire and set about making another pot of tea.

I continued our conversation. "So you have no way of contacting Lancaster? How is he to know when it is safe for him to return to his ranch?"

Smith raised one eyebrow and smiled. "I don't have a way of contacting him -- but he can contact me!"

"That's what I meant when I said I needed to be somewhere by the end of the week," he added. "Mr. Lancaster's going to start sending telegrams to Pagosa Springs, and I'll send a reply to whatever station he's using at the moment, to keep him informed on what that crazy sister of his is up to."

"And you can inform him of his brother's offer in the same way," I said.

He nodded. "Provided we light a shuck and get there in time. Pagosa Springs is almost a full day's ride."

Watson, tea in hand, sat down close to our guest, yet (I was happy to note) not so close as to provoke that instinctive recoil. The good doctor had an excited expression on his face. "I have never heard that expression before!" he said to Smith. "What does 'light a shuck' mean?"

Smith smiled ruefully. "I nearly forgot you two were English," he said. "I'll try not to throw so much slang into the conversation."  
He turned to face Watson. "When you light a shuck, you leave. Don't ask me why they say it. I try not to clutter up my brain with too much useless junk."

With a telling glance at me - that sounded like something I would have said to him! - Watson set his cup down, and whipped out his notebook. "I've quite a collection of Western slang," he said happily. Then, a crafty look came over his face. "Did I overhear correctly, that you plan to stay in Pagosa Springs and wait for a telegram?"

Smith nodded, lowering his brows at the avid gleam in Watson's eyes. Watson rubbed his palms together and chuckled. "May I make a suggestion that I hope will prove mutually beneficial?" he asked. "You can pass your time while waiting by helping me to complete my list of slang terms. Surely there is something I can do in return which would compensate you for your time."

A grin spread over Smith's face. "I planned to pass my time by teaching the local cowboys not to draw to an inside straight," he said. He raised both eyebrows as Watson quickly copied down his words. "That is," he added, peering over to read what the good doctor had written. "I was going to play poker."

"I'm not sure you got anything I really need," he said. "I'm planning on paying you for the loan of your clothes, and for the food."  
"Absolutely not!" Watson was outraged. "You owe me nothing."

I nodded my agreement, and Smith shrugged. "So what can you offer me that'll be more interesting than taking a bunch of ranch hands for all they've got?"

Watson fell silent, thinking furiously. I noticed, with some surprise, that Smith had a secretive smile on his face, as if he knew something Watson did not, and was waiting for my friend to catch on. He glanced up to catch me watching, and the smile blossomed into a grin. "I don't suppose you could offer me anything interesting, Mr. ... Hope?"

He paused just long enough to make it plain that he considered the name an alias. I had to smile in return. "What did you have in mind, Mr. ... Smith?"

Our guest chuckled. "Don't we make a pair?" he asked. "Both of us with enough smarts to recognize an alias when we see it, but neither of us willing to trust each other with our real names."

I shrugged. "For my part," I said. "I would have no qualms about telling you my true identity. However, my employer feared that his brother might become alarmed if he knew that I had been set on his trail." I coughed modestly. "In England, I have something of a reputation for solving crimes."

Smith laughed aloud at this. "Oh, not just in England," he said. "We read Dr. Watson's tales over here as well."

Watson sat bolt upright at this, and knocked his tea to the ground. "I say!" he exclaimed.

Smith held up a hand to forestall the good doctor's questions. "I gotta admit," he said with a grin. "I'm not as good at dee-tecting as Sherlock Holmes. But I am good at finding stuff out."

He winked at me. "And you left your passports in the cart."

I raised my eyebrows. "They were inside a locked safe," I retorted. "Behind a hidden panel."

The man shrugged. "I get bored easy. Also, I been feeling a little paranoid lately."

Watson stared, open mouthed, as our guest. "I cannot believe it!" he exclaimed. "You found the safe?"

The dimples creased Smith's cheeks. "And cracked it." His gaze slid back to my face. "It's a good safe, though," he added.

"It is the latest model Chubb!" I exclaimed, affronted. "You should not have been able to force it open." I took a few puffs on my pipe while I got my temper under control. 

"I confess," I said. "That I am somewhat disappointed to find my suspicions about your career proven true. You are a burglar."

Smith winced. "Please!" he exclaimed. "Burglars are heavy-handed thugs! I'm a professional safe cracker." He paused, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I'm going to go out on a limb and suppose the other items you got hid around that cart used to be in Mr. Lancaster's house."

"My word!" Watson exclaimed. "When did you find the time to ransack our entire cart?"

The man's eyebrows rose, and his eyes widened. I suppose another might have believed the innocent expression. "Watson, I'm hurt! I would never ransack the belongings of someone who saved my life." 

Then, he shrugged, and his dimples flashed once more. "It's just that I didn't sleep too well last night," he said. "Let's just say I ... explored my surroundings."

Watson shot me an alarmed look. I frowned. "May I assume, in turn, that the money Lord Blackburn sent with us now resides in your pockets?"

The smirk vanished. His back stiffened. He started to leap to his feat, but made it only halfway before he winced with pain and sat back down. "Ain't nothing missing out of that blamed safe, Mister!" he exclaimed. "I don't do that sort of thing no more." He kneaded his back with one hand. "I'm working for the governor," he added soberly. "Earning an amnesty."

I inclined my head in acknowledgement. "I was not aware that the governor granted amnesty to 'professional safe crackers,'" I said. "But I confess that I, also, have been feeling a bit paranoid lately."

He glared at me for a long moment. "The governor grants amnesty when he's been working that safe cracker's tail off doing every dirty job in three states," he said. "I got me a legitimate business in the works, too."

His shoulders relaxed. "But I see your point. And I swear, I didn't take nothing out of your safe."

"Duly noted." I glanced at Watson, who still looked dumbstruck. I made a long arm and picked up the good doctor's cup. Rinsing it with hot water, I refilled his tea and handed it to him. He took it absently, still staring wide-eyed at our guest.

"You are a bank robber!" he said excitedly. "I have dearly hoped to meet a bank or train robber while I was in America!"

Smith gave him a little bow from his seat. "Both in one man," he said with a smile. "But remember it's former bank robber now."


	3. The Adventure of the Not-So-Innocent Bystander (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is deep in a case that brings him to the American West when he runs into a familiar figure

"I am even more eager to have you assist my research!" Watson exclaimed. "I must hear all about the trains and banks you've robbed, in addition to the lovely Western slang. Surely we can come to some agreement about that!"

Smith glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. "I was getting to that," he said. "There is something I'd be interested in. Something that I'd be willing to trade my information for."

I lowered my brows and glared. "You have learned our identities, yet we do not know yours," I said. "I hope that you do not bandy our names about, as I do wish to negotiate with Lancaster, not to threaten him."

A grin stretched across his face. "I got a lot of practice keeping secrets," he assured me. He stared cockily at me, head to one side. "I bet I'm good enough to bamboozle the Great Detective."

Watson glanced from Smith's face to mine, not quite certain of the undercurrent passing between us. For my part, I felt the thrill that passes through me upon meeting a worthy opponent. In this case, I did not feel the man was truly an adversary, yet his quick mind could well pose difficulties for me. Plus, now the dratted man had challenged me! I must discover which bank robber he might be, from the clues I already knew.

This would probably necessitate a visit to the local sheriff, as I was not as familiar with the American criminal class as I was with the European. Of course, the twinkle in those brown eyes hinted that I might already know of the man. With that personality, he would certainly have been a flamboyant robber - if, indeed, he had truly ceased that activity. 

The facts at hand: he admitted to robbing banks and trains, so I could discount burglaries or "break-ins" as they called them here. He styled himself a professional. This would eliminate most of the robberies that had relied on brute force. I also got the impression that "professional" to him meant a well-planned robbery executed with a minimum of injury, resulting in the maximum payoff.   
He had a partner, though I was not certain the other man had been his partner in crime as well as his work colleague. I would tentatively proceed on the assumption that the man was half of a robber pair.

I glanced up from my introspection to meet that mischievous smirk. "You do realize," I said, "That I am only familiar with the exploits of American criminals who have been publicized in the English newspapers."

He shrugged. "I suppose I could give you that for free. I'm pretty sure you'd have read about me in your paper. But you're on your own for the rest of it."

I smiled. "So I need only remember articles about outlaw pairs."

His grin widened. "That's assuming I'm half of a team," he said. "Which I ain't admitting to."

Watson, whose expression had run the gamut from excitement, through wonder, and now reminded me of a puppy who'd been kicked unexpectedly, broke into our conversation. "Holmes! Do you mean you've guessed his alias? That we must turn him over to the authorities?"

"Naw," our guest said absently, still staring into my eyes. "Your alias is the name you use to hide your real identity -- mine's 'Smith. And I sincerely hope that Sherlock Holmes is not going to be tempted by a measly bounty when Lord High-and-Mighty is footing his bills."

He glanced at Watson, then back at me, his face suddenly sober. "Coz I'm still wanted until that amnesty goes through."

"Thank you for the additional information," I said with a smile. "I feel certain that you are, indeed, half of an outlaw pair, though I have yet to meet your partner."

Watson gave me an imploring look. "Holmes," he said. "Stop there. We have no need to know who he is!"

"Ah, but I believe I have already solved that conundrum, Watson."

"Do not say it aloud, then!" Poor Watson was nearly in tears. "Holmes, we know the man. I cannot bear to turn him in, to put him in jail for what would surely be years!"

"Twenty," the man said, again as an aside while watching my face. I flatter myself that I gave away none of my thoughts by my expression.

"Oh, Holmes, no!" Watson grasped my arm. I gave an impatient sigh, and turned to look at my partner.

"Honestly, Watson, I can almost believe that you do not know me at all!" I exclaimed. "When have I shown any interest in the law for the law's sake?"

Watson's brow furrowed. "You do seem to have a rather intimate relationship with many unsavoury characters," he admitted. "I have often suspected that they were not all upright citizens."

I sighed. "Watson, I have friends in every criminal organization in London. Who do you think taught me to pick locks if not a criminal?"

Our guest cocked his head. "I find that real interesting. The serials make you out to be practically a lawman."

I let out a bark of laughter. "Hardly!" I retorted. "I have less interest in the law than in the solution to the puzzle. Watson can tell you I often lose interest in the criminal once I have solved the crime. Thus, my working closely with the police. It is to save myself the tedium of 'wrapping up the case,' as they say."

"Does that mean you don't care about the law?" the man asked, his eyebrows raised.

"It means that I care less about the letter of the law than about what is morally right and just," I said. "Of course, the criminals that I pursue during the course of my case must face the legal system."

I paused, and then smiled. "Usually."

He chuckled. "I guess I'm safe then, Watson! Sherlock Holmes isn't after me for one of his cases. Besides, I'm a reformed outlaw. Just keep that in mind."

"So you won't turn our friend over to the sheriff?" Watson held his breath until I shrugged.

"I see no reason to turn a man in simply because I happen to know who he is." I admitted.

I glanced back at the man in question, whose dimples had deepened even further. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and he raised one eyebrow at me. "That's assuming the Great Detective isn't bluffing," he said.

"Do not pretend to be more ignorant than you are, young man," I rebuked him. "You are well aware that there are only three possibilities well-known enough for publication in an English newspaper." I paused to draw on my pipe. "Three pairs who have warranted articles in our newspapers."

Our guest settled back on his rock. He crossed his arms and stretched both legs out in front of him, and looked at me with an expression of polite interest. I must confess I had some difficulty resisting the urge to slap the man. His cockiness could well prove to be most annoying.

When I had my temper once more in hand, I lowered myself to another rock and poured tea for all. Watson, on pins and needles to learn my theories, snatched the cup from my hand almost before I could finish pouring Smith's tea. I refilled the good doctor's cup, and then poured myself one, hiding a smile as Watson quickly handed me the milk and sugar, then snatched both away as soon as it looked as if I had finished. I motioned for him to settle himself, and cleared my throat.

"I repeat," I said. "There are only three possibilities that I can see. I should prefer to postpone the discussion until I can verify my information, but I can see that neither of you would be willing to grant me that time."

Smith grinned at Watson, and took a drink of his tea. 

"Jesse and Frank James are quite a famous pair," I said. "However, I feel that their crimes are a bit too brutish. Though I cannot be certain, you seem to be the sort of man who would rather win by guile than brute force."

He inclined his head in my direction, and gestured for me to continue.

"I admit that I am torn between the next choices," I said. "Both pairs have aspects which could fit you. If your partner were present, I could identify the correct choice at once."

Our guest grinned impudently, but said nothing.

"I have yet to make my mind up completely," I told him, nodding to Watson. "The other two outlaws I have considered are Butch Cassidy and Hannibal Heyes. Both men ride with one partner. Both have been described as above average in intelligence. Both are said to be master strategists. And both have been said to be gentlemen, even during their robberies."

Watson stared wide-eyed at our guest. "Do you mean that you are actually a famous bank robber?" he exclaimed. "You're someone I have read about? How very exciting!"

The man raised an eyebrow, and a dimple creased the left side of his mouth. "You might even have read something I wrote," he said. "I been selling dime novels about six months now."

I stared, and he gave me an apologetic look. "I sort of figured," he said. "They're gonna write about me anyhow. So why shouldn't I get the pay for it, since it's my life?"

"What a sensible idea!" Watson said. He was practically quivering with excitement. "Which books have you written? I may have read them." I was willing to bet that Watson had read all of them, along with almost every other dime novel about the Wild West ever produced.

"Are you really Butch Cassidy?" Watson added. "Is the Sundance Kid the one guarding Mr. Lancaster?"

"Maybe," our guest said with a smile. "Maybe I'm Hannibal Heyes. And maybe I'm neither, and the Great Detective is making a bad play."

Watson waved the last idea away, bless the man, and kept talking. "Whichever one you are, I shall enjoy speaking with you. Did you find our safe far too simple for your talents? Will we meet your partner at some time? Should we stop at your hideout and retrieve some clothing and weapons, or would your gang expect us to know the secret handshake?"

A look of mild panic crossed the man's face. He looked at me, wide-eyed, but I merely smiled and shrugged. I had been dealing with the good doctor's boundless enthusiasm for years. Our guest was on his own.

He cleared his throat and faced Watson, who was drinking his tea with a happy smile on his face. With the exception of a rewarding medical case, there was nothing my friend liked better than gathering material for one of his stories. Contrary to popular opinion, Watson's writing was not limited to descriptions of my exploits. Like myself, he published the odd monograph on various subjects. I predicted essays on Westernisms and bank robbers in the near future.

"As to your safe," our guest said. "I wasn't lying. It's a good model. Took me over three hours to crack her." His eyes sparkled. "I ain't had so much fun since I hit the Parkersfield bank last winter. They had a brand new Pierce and Hamilton."

I glanced at Watson. He was spellbound. I don't believe he blinked once during the man's speech.

"I'd be glad to tell you about my books," he continued. "But the Great Detective ain't made a firm decision yet. He ain't even proved I have a partner, much less which one my partner might be! I'm gonna wait and see if he can figure it out on his own." I shot him a glare. He only grinned.

"I don't have a gang, being a reformed outlaw. Remember? So I don't have a hideout, either. And when I did, we didn't have any secret handshakes." He stared into the middle distance with a smile, remembering some past event. "Some of them boys were too dumb to remember a secret handshake."

Watson wilted somewhat. "Well," he said, taking a deep breath. "I suppose it's not truly necessary for me to visit a robber's hideout. It would have been nice, however."

"Watson, you wouldn't have been impressed at all," our guest said. "Imagine a group of single men, some of them not too bright, living on the run from the law. That hideout was a throwed together, ramshackle place. The boys usually needed a bath. Nobody picked up after theirselves, nobody washed clothes or cooked a good meal."

His brow furrowed. "Come to think of it, I got no idea why I stayed as long as I did!"

He turned back my way, widening his eyes into that politely listening expression. I sighed.

"Obviously," I continued. "You are an expert safe cracker, as you claimed. You have a distinct talent for speaking, though you often adopt a less educated vocabulary. I have noticed that your memory is excellent, as is your reasoning ability."  
The man smiled, and gave me a little bow from his seat.

"I must admire your enthusiasm, though it was my safe which suffered. I am most disappointed in the Chubb Company, who promised their safe could not be compromised." I shook my head. "However, you do seem to have more joy in the solving of the puzzle, as I do, than in monetary rewards -- at least you do since you changed your ways."

"Since we're being honest, I'll let you in on a little secret," the man said. "It's always been more about the challenge for me. I ain't saying I ever turned down any money I found solving them challenges, but I turned down jobs with more money if I could get one that was harder to crack."

I nodded. He kept smiling, giving nothing away by change of expression or body language. I smiled in return. I, also, enjoy a good puzzle. And I had just recollected an important bit of information.

"Tell me," I asked, my smile unchanged. "Does Kid Curry have light hair, as the Sundance Kid is purported to?"

"Now, how would I know that?"

"Come, come. Surely Hannibal Heyes knows what his own partner looks like!" I chided.

The smirk on his face deepened. "Sure of that, are you?" he challenged.

"I have remembered that Butch Cassidy is said to be sandy blond."

He raised an eyebrow. "Mmmm. I didn't know that," he said. "Well, I sure ain't sandy blond, am I?"

He thrust out a hand. "John Hannibal Heyes," he said with a grin.

I stood, as he could not reach across the fire, and took his hand. I thought that Watson was going to attempt a cartwheel, the man was so excited.

"Hannibal Heyes!" he exclaimed. "Hannibal Heyes slept in our cart last night!"

"And Hannibal Heyes was mighty grateful for that cart," our guest said. "Don't go making me out to be some kind of ... I dunno ... mythic figure or anything. I just had a more exciting line of work than most, that's all." The dimples creased his cheeks again.

Watson's face fell. "Now I really don't see what I could offer a man like you," he said. "I can't bother you with my silly slang collection! You'll be busy 'fleecing the locals.' You might even have to elude the sheriff and his posse!"

Hannibal Heyes threw back his head and laughed. He winced as the move pulled sore muscles, but he did not stop laughing. "Watson, you're better than a shot of laudanum any day! I'm barely remembering I got bruises on my bruises."

He winked. "But you gotta quit believing everything you read in them dime novels. I should know -- I wrote some of 'em, and I made them stories up outta whole cloth."

Watson's eyes widened. "Do you mean that you never met the President?"

"Nope. Well, unless you count the president of a railroad. We played poker with one of them once."

Watson reached happily for his journal, and then cast a guilty look my way. "I know that you had not concluded your negotiations," he muttered.

I looked across at Heyes. "For my part, I will be satisfied if you put me in touch with your employer."

He nodded. "But you're on your own after that. I ain't promising anything."

"Understood."

He glanced at the sky. "But we really do need to vamoose -- er -- leave quickly if we're going to get to Pagosa Springs before dark." He glanced at Watson, who was scribbling frantically, then raised his eyebrows at me. I could not repress a smile. The good doctor's enthusiasm is one of the main reasons that I enjoy having him around. Hannibal Heyes was just going to have to get used to it.

Watson and I packed the cart. Heyes attempted to assist, only to find that the amiable, slightly bumbling journalist had metamorphosed into a stern doctor.

"You have not even begun to heal," he admonished our guest. "We will make a pallet from the bedrolls, and you will ride inside the cart and rest."

He glared sternly at the man. "I am speaking as your doctor now. I will not risk a relapse. You are ordered to rest as much as possible for at least the next week, preferably longer."

Hannibal Heyes widened his eyes. "Yes sir," he said, a note of gentle mocking in his voice. He lowered himself gingerly to a nearby rock. "See, I'm taking it easy!"

"You gotta understand something about us Westerners," he added. "It's expected a man could ride the rapids like I done, then get on with his chores without whining about it."

Watson gave him a horrified look. "That's inhuman!" he exclaimed. "The body must have rest in order to heal properly!"

I understood my old friend's tendency to be overly cautious with any injury. This attitude surely arose from his own experiences during the war, when he was encouraged to return to the battlefront before he was fully healed. The poor man had suffered a painful relapse, with a secondary infection that had nearly cost him the use of his arm, if not his life. I am certain that Watson would not have suffered the lingering effects of his injury had the wound been properly treated in the first place.

Heyes shrugged, but stayed seated. "I got no broke bones," he said. "Just bruises and a few burns. They'll heal soon enough."  
He watched Watson pile the bedrolls atop the tent I had already stretched over the floor of the cart, and rose stiffly to his feet. "Besides, it'll do me good to keep moving."

Watson shot him another glare, and he raised his hands in surrender. "But I'll be happy to ride in the cart!" he muttered.

He eased into the back of the cart, wincing several times. Watson said nothing, but stood with his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. Heyes rolled his eyes. "OK, so I'm hurting," he said. "Doesn't mean I'm on death's door."

He slid further inside, shoving one bedroll into a rough backrest. "Cozy," he said with a smile. He studied at the shelves as we finished loading the cooking gear.

"I don't suppose you have anything to read," he ventured. "I didn't find any books in here last night, but I try to be optimistic."

Watson grinned and dug into his bag. "I have just the thing!" He pulled out two new dime novels -- I raised an eyebrow, as I'd had no idea the good doctor had made any purchases other than our supplies. He at least had the decency to blush as he handed them to our guest.

Heyes took the books with the caution a man might accord a poisonous reptile. He looked at the lurid covers with wide eyes.

"Will they do to amuse you?" I asked, smiling at the man's expression.

"Er ... they would if I hadn't written one of them." Heyes replied. "And I don't think Wyatt Earp ever met a mummy."  
He handed the books back to a dejected Watson. 

"I appreciate the thought," he said. "I'm sure the book about the mummy will make good reading. I just don't go for that sort of thing."

He peered into the bag, a hopeful expression on his face. "Say, what's that one?"

Watson pulled out the massive medical reference that normally occupied a prominent place on his bedside table. "It's my medical text," he said, a confused expression on his face. "I'd hoped to find time to read up on my infectious diseases during the journey."

Heyes took the book -- he had to use both hands, as his weakened muscles refused to support the heavy book -- and flipped through the pages. He raised an eyebrow and pulled the book closer. After a moment, Watson cleared his throat.

Heyes jumped. "Sorry," he muttered. "I get sort of involved when I'm reading. This bit about anatomy is fascinating. I never knew people had so many bones!"

Watson looked at me with a bemused expression. I could see that the idea of a bank robber who read medical text for amusement did not fit his idea of the proper sort of outlaw. For my part, I found that the more I learned about Heyes, the more I admired the man. I appreciated his quick wit, even if he often annoyed me. Obviously, he was far more educated than he admitted, if he could not only understand the medical jargon in the book, but also actually appreciate it. I had always found Watson's texts to be dry and tedious.

"This should keep me safely in bed for awhile," Heyes said with a smile. "I don't guarantee I'll stay there for long, but I ought to last until we get to Pagosa Springs."

Watson frowned. "As your doctor, I insist that you give your body sufficient time to heal. How can I persuade you to cooperate?"

Heyes raised an eyebrow, and that dimple appeared on his left cheek once more. "We could exchange information," he said. "You want to learn how to speak like a Westerner."

He looked at me, and his smile grew into a grin. "And I want some lessons in dee-duction!"

I stared back, dumbfounded. "Young man, I cannot teach you in a few weeks what it's taken me years to learn."

He waved the idea away. "I don't need to know stuff like how to tell what kind of cigarette a fellow smokes by looking at the ashes," he said. "We tend to roll our own out here. But I'd be real interested in how to tell more about people by their clothes and their accents, like you do in your stories."

I thought about it. "I am willing to participate in such an experiment," I said. "Depending on how long this case drags on, you could make a reasonable beginning toward learning to ... deduct, as you put it."

He grinned. "I'll need every advantage I can get when we open our new business. That, and I always wanted to know how you pulled that trick."

"Then we will consider the matter decided," I said, closing the bottom half of the cart door. "Once we arrive and conclude our respective business, the three of us will exchange information while we wait for a telegram."

"And if we don't head out," Heyes said, opening the reference book once more, "It'll be tomorrow before we arrive."

"Understood." Watson and I clambered onto the bench at the front of the cart, and I urged the mules into motion. We arrived in the small town around dusk. I left Watson dickering with the stable man while Heyes and I checked into the lone hotel. Once Watson caught us up, the three of us strolled down to the telegraph office. Heyes did not seem disappointed to find nothing awaiting us.  
"There's no telling when Lancaster'll get in touch," he said. "They might not be anywhere close to a town."

We informed the telegrapher of our address at the hotel, and were assured that any telegrams for either of us would be delivered at once. Watson then practically dragged our guest to the general store, where he outfitted the man from head to toe, over his strenuous objections.

"You cannot walk about on those feet without shoes," the good doctor insisted. "Nor brave the sun without a hat. And my clothing hardly fits you."

"You may pay us back if you wish," I interjected, and this seemed to ease the man's mind. I remembered that Americans had a peculiar attitude toward what they termed "charity." Accepting anything freely given was frowned upon, and some even felt insulted if offered such largesse. Heyes seemed quite uneasy allowing us to purchase clothing for him, even after my comment.

Eventually, however, Watson prevailed, and we returned to the hotel laden with clothing. The establishment had, surprisingly enough, offered a small suite of rooms - at an exorbitant price, of course. It seems that the president of the local railroad was in the habit of stopping at the town when he visited relatives in the area, and the suite had been constructed for his use. The manager attempted to coerce us into paying double what the rooms were worth, but when I pointed out his chances of actually renting the suite when the railroad magnate was not in town, he relented and let us have them for only a few dollars more than the ordinary rooms.

The suite consisted of two bedrooms and a small sitting room. I immediately claimed the sofa as my sleeping quarters. When Watson began to protest, I reminded him that I rarely slept the night out while on a case, and my nocturnal meanderings -- not to mention nicotinic meditations -- would merely keep the two of them awake unnecessarily. My friend gave in gracefully, and carried his baggage into one bedroom, leaving the other for our guest. Heyes stood in the sitting room for a moment, looking about him with a somewhat shell-shocked expression. 

"I'm gonna owe you fellows half my blamed paycheck," he muttered before he shuffled off to his room. He took along Watson's medical book, but I expected that, after the long, rough ride in the back of the cart, the man would likely fall asleep quickly, and I was not disappointed. Heyes did not even join us for dinner in the hotel restaurant. I peered into his room as we left, and saw that he had dozed off while propped against the headboard. The book, still open to the page he had been reading, had slipped down to rest on the quilt beside him. I closed the door quietly, and Watson and I trooped downstairs and enjoyed a plain but well-prepared meal.

I woke early, of course, and spent the time waiting for my comrades to awaken mulling over the case (and smoking). Heyes appeared in the doorway to his bedroom well before sunrise, having slept for over twelve hours. He stared blearily at me, yawning and blinking, and ran both hands through his hair.

"Wha' time is it?" he mumbled.

I checked my pocket watch, and informed him, whereupon he raised one eyebrow. "I musta passed plumb out. I don't even remember getting in bed."

"You were exhausted by the long ride," I said.

Watson had purchased tobacco and cigarette papers at the store, and Heyes now rolled a cigarette for himself. I handed him the box of sulfurs, and soon the two of us sat happily puffing, filling the sitting room with blue smoke. So much so, in fact, that when Watson finally put in an appearance around sunrise, his first act was to fling open the window and chide us for creating an atmosphere bereft of oxygen.

Heyes and I exchanged amused glances, and the three of us made our way downstairs for breakfast. I noted Watson's relieved expression when his patient showed an increase in appetite. Our guest's throat had begun to heal, for he seemed to enjoy his food more than the previous two days, without the pained expression whenever he swallowed. He even took seconds when the breadbasket circulated around the table again. 

Breakfast over, we retired to the hotel porch, to enjoy the sunshine and watch the small number of passersby, while waiting hopefully for a telegram. Watson drew out his journal and began peppering Heyes with questions about Western life, customs, and language. I noted that the man's voice, though still hoarse, was markedly improved. He was able to answer the good doctor's questions without the strain he showed yesterday, and speaking seemed less painful, judging from his expressions.

I studied the two as they conversed. Both Watson and Heyes were animated speakers, and I thought with some amusement that each would find it difficult to speak were they to sit on their hands. Their faces showed emotion easily, and I could practically tell what was being said merely by watching their faces and hands. I tend not to show emotion, and have often pondered whether this is an advantage or a handicap. I enjoyed watching Heyes and Watson's obvious enjoyment of each other's company. My old friend seemed to grow younger as they spoke, rejuvenated by his discovery of a like mind.

Heyes, it seemed, possessed the same effervescent personality as the good doctor. He might not be quite as exuberant in asking questions as Watson, but I saw the same curious expression on both faces as they watched the townspeople going about their daily lives. I knew from my reading that Hannibal Heyes was said to possess a "silver tongue" which could sway any listener to his point of view, and I knew from experience that the man had a cocky confidence in his own power of persuasion, which would indicate that the articles had at least a grain of truth. 

Once Watson paused, out of questions for the moment, I leaned closer to Heyes. "What can you tell me about the gentleman passing on the other side of the street?" I murmured. I glanced at my protégé from the corner of my eye, and was pleased to note the intent expression on his face.

"You mean the Honest Storekeeper, I guess," he replied, causing me to raise an eyebrow in surprised approval. This endeavor might not be as difficult as I had anticipated! I gave him a satisfied nod. "Well," Heyes continued. "He's obviously honest, because as a storekeeper, he could easily steal a better suit than that one."

"And you know he is a storekeeper because you met him yesterday."

Heyes nodded absently. Watson stared across the street with a frown. "How did you remember that?" He asked. "We barely saw the man as we paid for our purchases."

Heyes and I traded smiles. "I don't forget nothing," Heyes said. His face sobered, and he glanced back at me. "You should probably keep that in mind."

"Noted," I replied. "Now, did you note the traces of mud on the storekeeper's boots? He has visited the stables recently."

The man smiled. "Nope, I missed that. What other details did your apprentice miss, oh Master of the Insignificant?"

I frowned. "I cannot help but feel you are not taking this seriously, Mr. Smith."

He raised his hands in surrender. "I'll cut the wisecracks, OK?" He sighed. "My partner's got the same opinion of my mouth sometimes."

I nodded. We continued the "lessons" until it became obvious that the man was flagging. I then suggested a mid-morning snack, which prospect was greeted with delight by Watson. Over coffee and cake, I broached the subject that had been worrying me all morning. 

"I cannot imagine that Mrs. Morecambe has been resting on her laurels for two days."

Heyes raised an eyebrow, and I continued. "If you were she, what action would you take?"

He shrugged. "I'd probably ..." A look of horror came over his face. I nodded.

"Why the he--" He glanced around the restaurant, and I could see him changing the word. "--ck didn't I see it before?"

I smiled. "Your injuries are distracting your mental faculties," I said. "It is almost impossible to completely ignore discomfort."

Watson stared from my face to Heyes', a look of bemusement on his face. "Do you mind sharing with the ordinary man?" he asked.

Heyes stared into space, eyes wide. "If I were that woman," he murmured. "I'd send some bloody clothing, maybe a distinctive hat, to the ranch. I'd say the man died during questioning, but not before he spilled the beans. I'd lie low and wait for Lancaster to bolt."  
He looked at me then. "Jed and I know all about staying put when somebody's beating the bushes," he added. "He'd know enough not to bolt."

"But could he not arrange for whoever delivers the 'package' to take his place as bodyguard?" I mused. "Would your partner not ---"

"Blast it, he's going to show up here!"

"I can only assume so, from what I've read of your friendship." I stared at the coffeepot. I would have to collect our tea from the cart, so that Watson and I could enjoy a civilized beverage.

"The question," I added. "Is what are we to do about it?"

Watson leaned forward, an avid expression on his face. "Your partner is a gunslinger, isn't he? Is he going to ride into town, guns blazing, and shoot up the place?"

Heyes gave a strangled laugh. "Only if he's been drinking alkali water! Real gunslingers do their best not to pull leather." He rolled his eyes as Watson hurriedly extracted his pen and journal.

"Only," he said, eyes hooded. "If he thinks I'm dead ..."

"Exactly." I took out my pipe, and Heyes rolled a cigarette. The two of us mused, smoke pooling in the ceiling above our table.

"I don't even know where to send a telegram," Heyes said. "And now I know why Lancaster didn't have one waiting for me. You got any ideas?"

"Not at the moment, though I shall put my best effort into the problem." I raised an eyebrow. "I have no wish to run into an angry gunslinger, not when Watson and I are so very obviously from the same country as Mrs. Morecambe!"

"Good Lord, I hadn't even thought of that!" Watson swallowed and stared at the doorway. "Do you really think he'll fill us full of lead?" I gave Watson a skeptical glance.

"Must you sound so blasted excited at the prospect?" I queried.

Heyes put his head in his hands. "The Kid I know wouldn't," he said around his cigarette. "But the only other time he thought I was dead, he came out guns blazing alright."

I had nothing to add, and we adjourned to the porch once more, Watson, at least, in hopes of spotting the gunslinger riding down the middle of the street, guns drawn. Myself, I suspected a knowledgeable gunman would pick a less obvious method of entering a town. I noted that Heyes was not scanning the streets, either, and he certainly knew his partner far better than Watson or I did.

"Watson," I said softly. "You do realize that the message -- if, indeed, there is one, must travel to the ranch, and from there, to Lancaster. And that whoever journeys to Pagosa Springs -- assuming anyone does -- will then have to ride here?"

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. I sighed. "It's going to take at least a week, old friend."

Watson, though initially dejected, soon perked up and spent the rest of the week plying Heyes with questions. I attempted to distract the man by tutoring him in the art of deduction. However, as the days dragged on with no sign of a telegram, Heyes grew more and more somber.

"They think I'm dead," he muttered at dinner Friday night, resting his chin in one hand. "I got no way of letting them know otherwise."

"We can only hope that your partner is sensible enough to realize that it could be a trap, and refuse to respond."

Heyes looked up at me, a bleak expression on his face. "That'd console me if I didn't know how much he worries. No, I think you were right. He's gonna get another bodyguard and head out here as fast as he can."

Watson leaned over the table, barely missing the gravy with his tie. "Do you think he'll arrive by horse, by stagecoach, or by train?" he asked.

"John," Heyes said through his fingers. "You know how much I like you. Honest."

He looked at Watson from the corner of his eyes. "But I just can't deal with the dime novel crap right now. I'm sorry."

Watson looked hurt for a moment, then his great heart rallied. "I quite understand. I'm glad you told me."

He glanced at me across the table. "Mr. Smith is the expert here, I believe." I nodded, and Watson returned his gaze to Heyes. "What should we do, Smith?"

Heyes dropped his head completely into his hands and groaned. "I'll be blamed if I know, John! I'll be blamed."

He raised his head, combing both hands through his hair. "If he does show up, and if I can't get to him before he finds you two, there are some things you can try."

Watson piped up, "We can try to grab his pistol and insert a finger between the hammer and the barrel!"

Heyes winced. "No. Just ... no." He sighed. "I've only seen that stunt pulled once, and the fellow was standing right beside the gunman. Plus, that hammer's got a real sharp point on it -- it'd hurt like blazes!"

He looked at both of us, his brows lowered. "You never put your hands on a man's gun, especially not a man like my partner. It's ... well his gun is part of him. It's like you was to grab his ... oh, hell."

I watched with some interest as a blush crept across the dark cheeks. I would have said that Heyes was one of the last men on Earth who would feel embarrassment. Evidently, a gunslinger's weapon was considered the same as his private parts ... most interesting.

Heyes cleared his throat and spoke, his gaze alighting everywhere but on Watson or myself. "No, what you do if you meet him is raise your hands very slowly. Show him you're unarmed, and do whatever he says. If he wants you to go to the sheriff's office, for God's sake, go. I'll straighten everything out once I catch up."

He then gave each of us a sober glare. "You do not give him any excuse to pull that gun, do you understand?" We nodded. I could only hope that Watson would take the situation as seriously as it warranted.

The three of us passed the weekend in increasing anticipation. Watson, especially, was on pins and needles before sunset on Sunday. By Monday, even Heyes was showing the strain. He excused himself from lunch to check the telegraph office for the third time that day, claiming that the storm to the north might have delayed its arrival. I looked across the table and raised an eyebrow at Watson.

"If this keeps up, we are all going to need a vacation," my old friend said with a smile.

"Possibly. I shall continue to distract our friend." I smiled. "He is actually quite good at deduction. I'm impressed with his skill at observation."

Watson pouted. "You do realize that you monopolize your ... er ... clients," he said. He'd gotten his journal out, and now returned it to his lap. I glanced at the precariously balanced raincoat, umbrella, journal, and pen case. I anticipated a scramble across the floor of the restaurant in the near future, and smiled at the thought.

Watson took offense at my expression, and frowned. "Dammit, Ho--pe! I wasn't finished with Mr. Smith -- and we were having fun together, too!"

"Somehow, I doubt that." A soft baritone voice spoke above us. I froze in my chair. With abject chagrin, I realized that someone had crept up behind us, from the back of the hotel, and neither Watson nor myself had been paying attention!

I turned my head slowly. The man was tall, broad-shouldered -- more muscular than his smaller partner. His blond hair was tousled underneath the dusty hat. The blue eyes were hooded, and seemed almost icy. I could find no trace of emotion on the man's face. The pistol still rested in its holster, but the man had pulled his coat behind the weapon, so that it would not impede his hand if he should need to draw.

I'm afraid I automatically catalogued the gunman. Even in a crisis situation, my mind races ahead. Well muscled ... the man was used to physical labour. Lean, but well nourished, with quite muscular hands and forearms. I noted in passing the callouses caused by a lifetime of handling pistols. The dust on the man's clothing was from at least four different areas, though I was not (and am not still) familiar enough with America to determine where those areas may lie. I saw mud on both boots, so he had passed through the storm to get here.

I glanced back at the face. I could see that this would be the "ladies' man" of the pair, with those blue eyes, blond hair, and the rounded features of a man younger than I knew he must be. A "baby face," I believe the Americans call it. Just then, however, he did not look at all inviting. 

I cleared my throat. "I believe there is something I should tell you," I said, only to be interrupted.

"You know," came the soft voice. "I'm getting real tired of hearing that accent." The icy eyes turned in my direction. "How 'bout neither of you open your mouths again."

I nodded, and, as Heyes had instructed, raised my hands slowly. From the corner of my eye, I saw the man in question fling himself into the back of the hotel. Heyes was panting -- obviously he'd dashed back as soon as he heard his partner had arrived. I could tell his injuries were still hampering his movement, for he grimaced as he leaned against the restaurant door. His eyes were wide, and almost wild as he cast about the restaurant. 

The relaxation in his body as he caught sight of his partner was visible even across the room. He took a deep breath, and his eyes scanned the room with such professionalism that I felt a little thrill of pride, though I understood that it was only partly justified. Heyes frowned at Watson, who had frozen, watching the gunslinger with wide eyes (and, I suspected, happy heart).

"John," he said, his hoarse voice barely carrying across the room. "Put your hands in plain sight." He strode across to stand behind his partner. I noted that he was careful to avoid startling the man, even though the two had been friends for years.

Watson made a move to rise, and his belongings slipped from his lap. The good doctor, one hand in the air, made a grab for them, knocking his chair to the floor, and I heard a sudden click. When I glanced back, the pistol had appeared in the gunman's hand, almost as if it had materialized there from the ether.

And Heyes reached out a hand, gently, and slid his thumb between the hammer and the barrel just as the hammer slammed forward.

"Since when were you trigger happy?" he said, pushing the barrel of the gun toward the floor.

The gunslinger jerked reflexively on the pistol, and Heyes let out a stifled yelp of pain. At this, his partner finally looked away from Watson, who had a smile of delight on his face.

His eyes focused downward, narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. Then, the brows shot towards his hairline, and the eyes widened. I watched with some confusion as they seemed to shift from icy to warm within a heartbeat.

The man reached out with his free arm, to grab tightly onto Heyes' free arm. "Hey!" he said softly, and I heard wonder and relief in the voice. 

Heyes gingerly freed his thumb, then took that thumb and one finger and slowly guided the pistol back into its holster. His partner seemed not to notice, but stared into his face without blinking. "Hey!" he said again.

Heyes patted the broad chest with the hand he'd freed from the pistol. I noted that the thumb left a bloody trail along the blue shirt. A grin split his face from ear to ear.

"Hiya, K," he rasped. 

I had to admire the way that both of them -- almost -- used the other's name, while not saying anything that might arouse suspicion in any onlookers. And there were onlookers. 

Heyes glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. "Just a misunderstanding, folks," he said with a smile. "My friend thought these fellows were part of a gang."

He turned to his partner. "Thaddeus, I want you to meet Mr. Walker and Mr. Hope. They're from the London Examiner."

The gunslinger glanced at us, his face still emotionless. "Walker ... and Hope," he muttered, and then turned his gaze back to his partner, who grinned at him.

"They're not working with the crazy woman," Heyes said. "So you ---"

"They said you was dead!" 

Heyes moved his hand around to squeeze the man's forearm. "I know. I couldn't even let you know different." He frowned. "Why didn't you at least telegraph to see if I was here?"

His partner's frown was more impressive. "The letter said you told 'em everything. We couldn't risk it."

Heyes let out a strangled laugh. "I told em almost everything," he corrected. "I told 'em I had no idea where you two were, only they were too blamed stupid to believe me." The dimple creased his left cheek. "You know, I think my plan really worked pretty --- whoa!"

The gunslinger closed both fists in the front of Heyes' shirt, and hoisted the smaller man completely off his feet, nearly slamming him into the wall. Heyes winced.

"I thought you was dead!" His partner repeated through gritted teeth. "Don't you dare joke about it!"

The smirk vanished instantly. Heyes' eyes widened, and he stared at his partner for a moment. "I'm sorry, K!" he said softly. "I'm sorry!"

He grabbed the man's arm and squeezed, hard. "It ain't nothing but whistling in the dark, you know that! Just one more face is all."

His partner's expression, already somber, darkened like a thundercloud. "Ain't no need for faces with me. Ain't no call to con your own partner."

Heyes dropped his eyes. His body went limp. "K, I'm sorry," he repeated. "I been doing it so long it's habit." He glanced up. "There ain't no call for it, I know, but if I don't turn it into a joke ...." He shrugged, and stared at the floor.

The other man's fists tightened in Heyes' shirt. He sucked in a deep breath, and then his hands relaxed. "Alright," he said. He took another breath. "Alright."

He pulled off his hat and ran one hand through his tangled curls. "I'm just do blamed riled up right now," he said. "I don't know whether to start breaking furniture or jump back on that pony and head for the horizon."

Heyes smoothed the front of his shirt, and looked up at his partner through his bangs. "How about joining me in a little payback?" he suggested.

The man gave him a dubious stare. "Are you well enough to be scheming? Your clothes was bloody. "You didn't get away scott free. How bad is it?"

Heyes lowered himself into a chair. "Of course my clothes were bloody. They knocked me off my durn horse -- had a rope strung across the trail!" He pulled the neck of his shirt apart so his partner could see the scabbed-over rope burn. "Knocked the wind plumb out of me! Left me with a nosebleed and a whopper of a headache, too, I can tell you!"

His hands had continued to straighten the disarranged clothing, and he suddenly paused and looked down. "Darn it, partner, you tore my new shirt!"

The other man frowned. "This don't really seem the right time for you to be getting yourself a whole new outfit," he muttered.

Heyes rolled his eyes. "K, you got my clothes, remember?"

"You mean you ain't got nothing at all?"

Heyes chuckled. "Not a stitch. And I want my hat back!" He frowned. "And my pistol."

"I got your hat," his partner said absently, staring intently at Heyes. "You never said how bad you was hurt, either."

He dropped into the chair across from Heyes. "Was ... did they do anything permanent?"

"Naw, I lit out of there before they could really start things up." Heyes trailed a finger through a bit of tea that had slopped onto the table during the shuffle. "But I had to dive into a flooded creek to get away, and that banged me up but good!"

I noticed the sly glance he gave his partner from beneath his bangs. Heyes did not want the other man to worry -- quite the same way that I kept things from Watson that would cause needless stress. Heyes caught my stare, and gave me a small wink. I restrained the urge to roll my eyes. Really, the man was irrepressible. 

"What I want now," he said, his brow furrowing. "Is to get my gear back -- and teach those hombres a lesson they won't forget in a hurry."

His partner leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "And I suppose you got a plan,"

Heyes grinned. "Not yet," he said. "But I'm working on it. And Mr. Hope, here, is pretty good at scheming too."

I decided that the situation had been defused, and returned somewhat gingerly to my previous seat at the table. The small crowd, who had evidently been hoping for a heated gun battle, muttered in disappointment and dispersed. Watson set his belongings onto the table and righted his chair. I sighed as I saw that he was staring at the gunman with an expression of unabashed delight.

"I have so looked forward to meeting an actual gunslinger!" he exclaimed.

The man turned his head and stared at my friend, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. "You almost got your head blowed off," he said.

Watson ignored this statement -- or didn't hear it, so excited was the good man. "And the way you drew your pistol! I've heard of the quick draw, but that was simply amazing!"

The gunman stared back at Heyes. Heyes shrugged. "It's his first trip to the U.S." he said. "He gets excited."

"I was that close to drilling him!" his partner said. He looked back at Watson. "Ain't you got enough sense to understand that?"

I leaned forward with a frown. "My partner is one of the most sensible men you will ever meet, young man!" I chided. "It is not foolhardiness, but bravery, which makes him ignore the danger."

I took a breath, and calmed myself. "John fears practically nothing," I said. "Thus, he enjoys life more than any man I know."

I don't think Watson heard one word of our heated exchange. He'd opened his journal, and was scribbling frantically. "How many hours do you practice each day?" he asked the gunslinger. "Did it take long for you to master the quick draw technique? Are you the fastest gun in the West, or are there men even faster? Do your hands ever ache from strain?"

The man stared across the table, eyes wide in amazement. He shot his partner another glance. Heyes threw back his head and burst into laughter.

"Partner," he said when he finally caught his breath. "You're on your own with John! Once he starts writing in that journal, you gotta answer his questions or head for the hills. I been talking for nearly a week, and he's still thinking of new questions for me!"


	4. The Adventure of the Not-So-Innocent Bystander (4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is deep in a case that brings him to the American West when he runs into a familiar figure

"My God," the blond man muttered. "Somebody who can out talk you?"

Heyes rolled his eyes. He looked around the table and raised an eyebrow. "Gentlemen," he said. "Shall we adjourn to the hotel room where we can talk freely?"

I smiled. "An excellent idea."

We trooped upstairs, and the newest addition to our group let out a whistle at the sight of the suite.

"Joshua, you do have the darndest talent for landing on your feet! I didn't even know they had rooms like this!"

Heyes shut the door and turned the key. "Forget about the Smith and Jones routine, Kid," he said with a smile. "They know who we are."

The man's eyebrows rose. He stared at his partner, then at us, then back at his partner. Heyes' eyes twinkled.

"Kid Curry," he said, "Meet Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson!"

"You're joshing!"

Heyes clapped his partner on one shoulder. "Holmes and Watson hauled me out of that creek," he said. "They're here to talk to Lancaster -- just talk! -- and give him a message from his brother back in England."

"Sherlock Holmes...?" Kid Curry muttered, staring at us with narrowed eyes. 

I gave him a little bow. "At your service."

Watson smiled broadly. "And I would dearly love to add anything you might tell me into my journals, so that I can write our adventures for our readers back in London."

He chuckled. "Though they will likely never believe that we have met Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry!"

I snorted. "Half of your readers, old friend, consider me to be a fictional character."

"Sherlock Holmes!" the gunslinger repeated. He dropped heavily onto the sofa and stared at his partner. "Heyes, what the devil have you gotten us into now?"

Heyes waved his objections away. "They're not going to try to turn us in, Kid, believe me! For starters, Lord Blackburn's as rich as Midas and is throwing money at them." He glanced at me with a sly smile. "And we still have to talk about you hiring a couple of former outlaws to help you get that book back."

I could not help but smile back. 

Heyes returned his attention to his partner. "And second, Holmes says he only turns people over to the law when he's after them for a case -- he's not after us. I believe him, Kid."

Watson nodded. "Neither of us would think of turning the two of you over to the sheriff," he said. "We think of Heyes as a friend at this point. And any friend of Heyes is a friend of ours, too."

Kid Curry narrowed his eyes. "And you just happened to run into my partner in the middle of Colorado?" he asked.

I let out a bark of laughter. "Believe it or not, that is exactly what happened! Watson and I were travelling back to Bakersville when the flood blocked us. We spotted Heyes in the water, and pulled him out. I had no idea who the man was until we shared our respective tales."

Heyes lowered himself into an easy chair and rolled a cigarette. "It's the truth," he said. "They didn't know me from Adam."

"Changing the topic," he announced. "We need to scheme."

He motioned for Watson and I to take seats, which we did. I prepared a pipe and lit it. I noted that Kid Curry, like Watson, did not smoke. In deference to their comfort, I rose and opened one of the windows.

"Thank you, Holmes!" Watson said. He looked pensive. "If only we had a nice tea!"

Heyes chuckled. "I had about as much tea as I can stomach," he said. "Give me a good strong pot of coffee from here on out!"

He glanced around the room, meeting our eyes with a steady gaze. I was suddenly made aware that the man had been the leader of an outlaw gang, and had planned and executed successful robberies for years before changing his ways.

"The way I see it," he said. "We gotta make Crazy Woman think that her brother has bolted, so she'll come out of hiding after him. We need a plan that'll get her somewhere we can trap her -- and that loco partner of hers, too."

"Heyes," Kid Curry muttered. "Remember I'm out of the loop here."

His partner nodded, and quickly brought him up to speed in regards to Mrs. Morecambe and her comrade. The gunman's brow furrowed, and the more Heyes told him, the heavier his frown grew.

"And what are you planning to do with them two once you get em in your trap?" he said.

Heyes shrugged. "I guess we'll have to turn them over to Holmes," he said. 

I nodded. "I will see that the proper authorities are presented with the pertinent evidence. You may rest assured that they will suffer the full penalty of the law."

Kid Curry glowered. "Unless they have an unfortunate accident on the way to the sheriff," he muttered.

Heyes reached over and patted his partner's arm. "Now, Kid," he said. "Once you see the full beauty of my plan, you'll change your tune."

He grinned. "I can assure you that you'll enjoy it, and feel completely vindicated."

Kid Curry stared at Heyes through narrowed eyes. "So what, exactly, is this beauty of a plan."

Heyes' grin widened. "Kid, I got no idea!"

He gave me a wink. "But me and Holmes will come up with one real soon."

I could not help but laugh at the man's infectious self-assurance. Hannibal Heyes was certainly quite the character.

"I feel sure that we can come up with something which will satisfy everyone involved," I said.

"Everyone except Mrs. Morecambe," Heyes added. I smiled.

We "schemed," as Heyes put it, for some hours, and I pray the Reader will forgive me if I reserve the details of our plan until the climax of this tale. I might not be as dramatic a writer as my old friend, but I flatter myself to believe I understand the rudiments of the craft.

Kid Curry made it his mission to make certain everyone in town knew that he was Mr. Lancaster's bodyguard. He dropped strong hints that his employer was ensconced in a cabin outside of town, in a remote location. He had scouted this area, and pronounced it perfect for our purposes. To provide the appearance of occupancy, the pair of (former) outlaws had gathered men from Lancaster's ranch. Without sharing the details of the plan, Kid Curry had informed them that Mr. Lancaster needed them to protect a certain item that was hidden in the cabin.

In case Mrs. Morecambe launched a direct assault on what she believed to be the hiding place of her brother, there were enough hired hands to fend off her attack. And in case one or more of the men were in the woman's employ, they would be misled into thinking that the article in question was somewhere inside the cabin. The men were informed that Mrs. Morecambe's partner was actually the leader of the homicidal duo, in case they shared Watson's earlier misconceptions about the female of the species.

Heyes, in the meantime, remained in hiding at the hotel. He intended for his former captors to believe him drowned. "I figure I'm about the only person still alive who can testify against them," he said. "They gotta think they're safe, so they'll take a chance and go after Lancaster -- or at least, what they think is Lancaster!"

I once more relied upon my juvenile network for news. It was nearly a week before one of the lads scampered into the hotel with word that a mysterious "lady" had been seen in town. Heyes set up a lookout in the window overlooking the main street, and reported that, as suspected, Mrs. Morecambe had arrived.

"I ain't seen her partner," he said. "And, honestly, I don't really want to. Not until I spring the trap, that is."

We kept a discreet watch on the woman, via my network of spies. She would have been dismayed to learn how much we knew of her actions. After securing a room in Mrs. Potter's Bed and Breakfast, she began searching the town -- without appearing to be more than another tourist. She soon satisfied herself that her brother was not hiding within the town limits. 

At that time, Mrs. Morecambe focused her attentions upon the town banker, evidently believing him to be the most reliable source of information. She was seen to "step out" with this worthy, and rumour soon spread of the sudden romance. My spies reported that the pair frequently retired to the banker's house, and were not seen to part until the next morning.

After another week, the banker's love interest mysteriously vanished. Of course, thanks to my juvenile network, I was able to report that Mrs. Morecambe had rejoined her partner at a ranch where they had evidently finagled an extended stay. The murderous pair remained at the ranch for two days, and then were seen leaving one morning, as if for a carefree horseback excursion.

Except that they were shortly joined by three unsavoury characters, and all five of them were heavily armed.

Heyes smirked when I reported this news. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed.

Our team then decamped to the environs of the isolated cabin. Setting up watch on all sides, we awaited the arrival of our opponents.

There was a bit of an argument concerning which of us would be responsible for capturing which member of the gang. Watson would have dearly loved to arrest Mrs. Morecambe, but I put my foot down firmly on that idea.

"I will take care of the woman," I told him. "Her wiles will have no effect on me." I fixed a firm stare on my old friend. "You, Watson, are all too susceptible to female manipulation."

"I most certainly am not!" he exclaimed. I merely glared at him, refraining from reminding him of the multitude of examples of this fact, and he eventually gave in, although quite reluctantly.

"Don't worry, Watson," Kid Curry said, clapping the good doctor on his good shoulder. "You and I are going to handle those three hired guns! That ought to be enough excitement for your stories."

Watson grumbled a bit, and then perked up at the thought of a gun battle. "It will be rather interesting," he admitted. "I have never been in a shootout before. My readers should be quite enthralled."

The Kid frowned. "The whole idea is to avoid a gun battle, remember?" Watson's face fell, but he soon rallied, and the two of them took their assigned places.

Heyes, for his part, insisted on confronting Mrs. Morecambe's nameless partner, the man who so enjoyed the pain of others. "He owes me," Heyes muttered. "And I aim to do my best to collect."

Though we had settled into our respective posts with no certainty that our foes would converge upon our location quickly, in fact we had only to wait some few hours before we heard the approach of their horses. Heyes had anticipated their actions, and I smiled to see the accuracy of his predictions.

The five of them split up, with the three thugs working their way towards the back of the cabin through the tangled undergrowth, which was one of the reasons Heyes had chosen this location. Mrs. Morecambe's partner crept through the trees, headed for the front of the building. The leader of the gang, evidently feeling that a woman had no place in a pitched gun battle, remained with the horses at some distance from the cabin.

I moved in on her location. As my attention was naturally focused upon my enemy, I am forced to rely upon Heyes' remarkable memory in order to relate the rest of my tale.

Kid Curry and Watson, from their hidden location in the rocks overlooking the cabin, chuckled as the three hired gunmen blundered into the traps that Heyes had set throughout the underbrush. One man stepped into a bear trap. I could hear the howls as the metal jaws snapped shut on his foot -- fortunately for him, Heyes had purchased a trap without jagged teeth. Another thug triggered a snare which captured one foot and catapulted him into the air, where he dangled from a tree limb, cursing. The third gunman evidently decided that his pay was not sufficient for such treatment, turned tail, and ran.

Watson and Kid Curry had only to climb down and retrieve the two greatly subdued thugs, though Watson confessed later that he had hoped for more resistance. "I did not even get to fire my pistol," he complained.

Mrs. Morecambe presented me with more of a challenge, as she proved to possess a small ladies' handgun with which she attempted to threaten me. However, my knowledge of baritsu, coupled with my complete lack of reverence for female "frailty," soon rendered her weaponless. The woman showered me with the most unladylike language, reminiscent of conversations I had overheard along the wharfs in London, and struggled until I was forced to tie her hand and foot and toss her across the back of one of her horses.

Heyes, for his part, reported that he lurked among the trees until his opponent drew near. He then tossed a lasso, catching the man squarely around the neck and jerking him to the ground. Using one of the trees as a pulley, Heyes hauled quickly on the rope, dragging the man by his neck through the ubiquitous low-growing cactus studding the landscape.

Before his enemy could regain his breath, Heyes had tossed the rope over a tree branch and hoisted him onto his toes. As the man clawed at the noose, Heyes stepped behind him and clapped a pistol to his head.

"You know," he rasped. "We gotta quit meeting like this."

I confess that I greatly enjoyed the astonishment with which our two captives greeted Heyes. The former outlaw, a smirk on his face, searched them both, retrieving his pistol from Mrs. Morecambe's saddlebags and a veritable arsenal of small knives, which he proceeded to secret about his person. I raised an eyebrow, and he grinned.

"Blades are sneakier than guns," he informed me. "And I'm a sneaky fellow."

"How did you survive, you __!" Mrs. Morecambe's partner exclaimed, showing a command of vulgar language almost the equal to his employer. "Your hands were tied. You jumped into a raging flood. You should be at the bottom of the river being eaten by fish!"

Heyes gave him a humorless grin and moved until he was face to face with the man. "I'm too damn stubborn to die," he said through gritted teeth. "Too bad you didn't know that when you bushwhacked me, cause that was the worst mistake you'll ever make."

At this, both our captives let fly with a barrage of such foul language that I was forced to gag them. Watson and Kid Curry arrived shortly afterwards, leading their pair of dejected thugs, their hands bound behind them. Heyes watched the men limp along behind their captors, and chuckled.

"I'd say that's another perfect plan," he said with satisfaction. "And now, I leave you gentlemen -- and woman, cause you sure ain't a lady! -- to the tender mercies of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who will shortly escort you back to your own country and introduce you to the English police."

At this pronouncement, Mrs. Morecambe and her nameless accomplice struggled in earnest, but their bonds were secure, and they quickly tired themselves out.

Shortly afterwards, Watson and I stood on the railway platform and bid farewell to our most fascinating comrades. Mr. Lancaster had agreed to accompany us back to England, to negotiate with his brother face to face.

"I don't promise anything," he told me. "But I've rethought my opinion of brotherly affection after these past weeks of my loving sister's attentions."

He had packed the stolen articles in a trunk, and I was happy to see that the rare tome was among them.

Our two prisoners were accompanied by a pair of local deputies, who had agreed to stand guard until we reached our ship. At that point, the pair of criminals would be transferred to the brig, to await Scotland Yard's attentions. The hired gunmen had been turned over to the sheriff, and were now enjoying the hospitality of his jail.

It was with true regret that I finally turned my attentions to the man I had grown to respect over the past weeks. I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I would miss the quick wit and swift retorts of one Hannibal Heyes. I had met no one except this former outlaw who had been able to meet me mind to mind, and I would find the coming months a trifle dull in comparison.

"I shall miss our conversations," I admitted, shaking the man's hand.

"Holmes, it's been a real pleasure," came the reply, Those quick dimples flashed, and the dark eyes twinkled. "Especially the bonus from Lord Blackburn for 'assistance beyond the call of duty!' If you ever need any help solving one of your cases, you know where to come."

I snorted, and then had to smile. "When you and your partner finalize your deal with the governor," I said. "And open your business, write to me with your address. Watson and I will be glad to hear from you."

"Absolutely," Watson exclaimed. He had shaken both men's hands a number of times, and gotten Heyes to autograph the dime novel the man had written, much to Kid Curry's amusement. "We will correspond regularly once you have a permanent address!"

Heyes smiled. "I gotta warn you. The two of us are rotten pen pals. But you write to us. I'd like that."

The last sight of our friend -- reformed outlaw, strategist extraordinaire, irrepressible scoundrel -- was as he and his partner mounted their horses and headed down Main Street. They turned once, at the edge of town, and raised a hand in farewell. Then, as in one of Watson's dime novels, they rode into the sunset.


End file.
